A  BOOK  OF 

AMERICAN 

HUMOJt 


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L/ 


PROSE 


A  Book  of 
American 
Prose  Humor 


A  BOOK  OF 

AMERICAN 

Prose  Humor 

Being  a  COLLECTION  of  Humorous 

and  Witty  Tales,  Sketches,  Etc.; 

(omposed  by  THE  BEST  KNOWN 

AMERICAN  WRITERS 


CHICAGO 

Herbert  £.  Stone  &  Company 
1904 


COPYRIGHT,      1903,     BY 
HERBERT  S.   STONE  &  CO. 


rf)r  ILaktsftif 

R.  R.  DONNELLEY  *  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


To 
E.  C.  S. 


1817216 


The  accompanying  selections  are  reprinted  through  the  cour- 
tesy of  the  various  publishers  who  own  the  copyrights.  Messrs. 
Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.  acknowledge  their  indebtedness  to  the 
tollowing  firms : 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  &  Co.  for  "The  Shakers"  and  "A  Business 
Letter,"  by  Artemus  Ward,  from  "The  Complete  Works  of  Arte- 
mus  Ward,"  and  for  "Oats"  and  "Our  Oldest  Inhabitants,  Two  of 
Them,"  by  Josh  Billings,  from  the  "Complete  Works  of  Josh  Bil- 
lings," and  for  "John  Henry  on  Butting-ln,"  from  "John  Henry. 

THE  STAR  PUBLISHING  Co.  for  "The  Interviewer"  and  "Scotty 
Briggs  and  the  Clergyman,"  by  Mark  Twain,  from  "Library  of 
Wit  and  Humor." 

THOMPSON  &  THOMAS  for  "Milling  in  Pompeii,"  "My  Mine," 
and  "All  About  Oratory,"  by  Bill  Nye,  from  "Remarks  by  Bill 
Nye." 

H.  M.  CALDWELL  &  Co.  for  "Samantha  at  Saratoga, '  by  Josiah 
Allen's  Wife. 

DODD.  MEAD  &  Co.  for  "Chimmie  Meets  the  Duchess"  and 
"Chimmie  Enters  Polite  Society,"  by  E.  W.  To,wnsend,  from  "The 
Adventures  of  Chimmie  Fadden." 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  Co.  for  "On  Golf,"  "On  the  French 
Character,"  and  "On  the  Victorian  Era,"  from  "Mr.  Dooley"in 
Peace  and  War,"  by  F.  P.  Dunne. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  for  "In  the  Country,"  by  Hayden  Ca- 
ruth,  from  Harper's  Magazine  for  August,  1901. 

NEW  AMSTERDAM  BOOK  Co.  for  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dinkelspie! 
Discuss  Literary  Matters,"  "Dinkelspiel  Explains  the  Dreyfus 
Case,"  from  "  D.  Dinkelspiel  and  His  Conversationings,"  by 
George  V.  Hobart. 

DUQUESNE  DISTRIBUTING  Co.  for  "At  the  Opera"  and  "In 
Love,"  by  Billie  Baxter,  from  "Billie  Baxter's  Letters." 

JOHN  RUSSELL  DAVIDSON  for  "Concerning  the  Four  Hundred," 
from  "The  Genial  Idiot,"  by  John  Kendrick  Bangs. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

ARTEMUS  WARD  (Charles  Farrar  Browne) 

THE  SHAKERS 3 

A  BUSINESS  LETTER      .     .      .     .      .     .        17 

JOSH  BILLINGS  (Henry  W.  Shaw) 

OATS 21 

OUR  OLDEST  INHABITANTS — Two  OF  THEM        3  i 

MARK  TWAIN  (Samuel  L.  Clemens) 

THE  INTERVIEWER 4.1 

SCOTTY  BRIGGS  AND  THE  CLERGYMAN      .        53 

BILL  NYE  (Edgar  Wilson  Nye) 

MILLING  IN  POMPEII 65 

ALL  ABOUT  ORATORY  , 73 

MY  MINE 81 

JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  WIFE  (Marietta  Holley) 

SAMANTHA  AT  SARATOGA 87 

E.  W.  TOWNSEND 

CHIMMIE  MEETS  THE  DUCHESS        .      .      .      107 
CHIMMIE  ENTERS  POLITE  SOCIETY        .     .      117 

JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS 

THE  GENIAL  IDIOT  ON  THE  FOUR  HUNDRED      1 25 

HENRY  M.  BLOSSOM,  JR. 

'•CHECKER'S"   LETTER 141 


CONTENTS 


Page 

GEORGE  ADE 

THE  FABLE  OF  THE  Two  MANDOLIN  PLAYERS 

AND  THE  WILLING  PERFORMER    .      .      .      147 
CLAUDIE 157 

MR.   DOOLEY  (F.  P.  Dunne) 

ON  THE  FRENCH  CHARACTER   .      .      .      .  167 

ON  THE  VICTORIAN  ERA 175 

ON  GOLF 183 

HAYDEN  CARUTH 

IN  THE  COUNTRY 191 

GEORGE  V.  HOBART 

JOHN  HENRY  ON  BUTTING-!N   ....      209 

MR.   AND   MRS.   DlNKELSPIEL    DlSCUSS  LlT- 

ERARY  MATTERS 221 

DINKELSPIEL  EXPLAINS  THE  DREYFUS  CASE     231 

BILLIE  BAXTER  (W.  J.  Kountz,  Jr.) 

AT  THE  OPERA 241 

IN  LOVE 247 


The  Shakers 

By 

Artemus  Ward 

(Charles  Farrar  Browne) 


Humorous   Prose 


THE   SHAKERS 
BY  ARTEMUS  WARD 

'"THE  Shakers  is  the  strangest  religious  sex  I  ever 
•*•  met.  I  'd  hearn  tell  of  'em,  and  I  'd  seen  'em, 
with  their  broad-brim' d  hats  and  long-wastid  coats, 
but  I  'd  never  cum  into  immejit  contack  with  'em, 
and  I  'd  sot  'em  down  as  lackin'  intelleck,  as  I  'd 
never  seen  'em  to  my  show — leastways,  if  they  cum 
they  was  disgised  in  white  peple's  close,  so  I  didn't 
know  'em. 

But  in  the  Spring  of  18 — ,  I  got  swampt  in  the 
exterior  of  New  York  State,  one  dark  and  stormy 
night,  when  the  winds  Blue  pityusly,  and  I  was 
forced  to  tie  up  with  the  Shakers. 

I  was  toiiin'  through  the  mud,  when  in  the  dim 
vister  of  the  futer  I  obsarved  the  gleams  of  a  taller 
candle.  Tiein'  a  hornet's  nest  to  my  off  hoss's  tail 

3 


4        AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

The  Shakers 

to  kinder  encourage  him,  I  soon  reached  the  place. 
I  knockt  at  the  door,  which  it  was  opened  unto  me 
by  a  tall,  slick-faced,  solum  lookin'  individooal,  who 
turned  out  to  be  a  Elder. 

"Mr.  Shaker,"  sed  I,  "you  see  before  you  a 
Babe  in  the  woods,  so  to  speak,  and  he  axes  shelter 
of  you." 

"Yay,"  sed  the  Shaker,  and  he  led  the  way  into 
the  house,  another  Shaker  bein'  sent  to  put  my  hosses 
and  waggin  under  kiver. 

A  solum  female,  lookin'  sumwhat  like  a  last  year's 
beanpole  stuck  into  a  long  meal  bag,  cum  in  and  axed 
me  was  I  a  thurst,  and  did  I  hunger  ?  To  which  I 
urbanely  ansered  "a  few."  She  went  orf,  and  I 
endeverd  to  open  a  conversashun  with  the  old  man. 

"Elder,  Ispect?"  sed  I. 

"Yay,"  he  said. 

"Keith's  good,  I  reckon?" 

"Yay." 

"What 's  the  wages  of  a  Elder,  when  he  under- 
stans  his  bisness —  or  do  you  devote  your  sarvices 
gratooitus  ?" 

"Yay." 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR         5 
By  Artemus  Ward 

"  Stormy  night,  sir." 

"Yay." 

"If  the  storm  continners  there  '11  be  a  mess  under 
foot,  hay?" 

"Yay." 

"It's  onpleasant  when  there's  a  mess  under 
foot?" 

"Yay." 

"  If  I  may  be  so  bold,  kind  sir,  what 's  the  price 
of  that  pecooler  kind  of  weskit  you  wear,  incloodin' 
trimmins?" 

"Yay!" 

I  pawsd  a  minit,  and  then,  thinkin'  I  'd  be  fase- 
shus  with  him,  and  see  how  that  would  go,  I  slapt 
him  on  the  shoulder,  bust  into  a  harty  larf,  and  told 
him  that  as  a  yayer  he  had  no  livin'  ekal. 

He  jumped  up  as  if  Billin'  water  has  bin  squirted 
into  his  ears,  groaned,  rolled  his  eyes  up  tords  the 
sealin'  and  sed,  "  You  're  a  man  of  sin  !  "  He 
then  walkt  out  of  the  room. 

Jest  then  the  female  in  the  meal  bag  stuck  her  hed 
into  the  room,  and  statid  that  refreshments  awaited 
the  weary  travler,  and  I  sed  if  it  was  vittles  she  ment 


6        AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Shakers 

the  weary  travler  was  agreeable,  and  I  follered  her 
into  the  next  room. 

I  sot  down  to  the  table,  and  the  female  in  the 
meal  bag  pored  out  sum  tea.  She  sed  nothin',  and 
for  five  minutes  the  only  live  thing  in  that  room  was 
a  old  wooden  clock,  which  tickt  in  a  subdood  and 
bashful  manner  in  the  corner.  This  dethly  stillness 
made  me  oneasy,  and  I  determined  to  talk  to  the 
female  or  bust.  So  sez  I:  "  Marrige  is  agin  your 
rules,  I  bleeve,  marm  ? ' ' 

"Yay." 

"  The  sexes  liv  strickly  apart,  I  'spect  ?" 

"Yay." 

"It 's  kinder  singler,"  sez  I,  puttin'  on  my  most 
sweetest  look,  and  speakin*  in  a  winnin*  voice, 
"  that  so  fair  a  maid  as  thow  never  got  hitched 
to  some  likely  feller." — -(N.  B. — She  was  upwards 
of  forty,  and  homely  as  a  stump  fence,  but  I  thwawt 
I  'd  tickil  her.) 

"  I  don't  like  men  !"  she  sed,  very  short. 

"Wall,  I  dunno,"  sez  I;  "they're  rayther  a 
important  part  of  the  populashun.  I  don't  scarcely 
see  how  we  could  git  along  without  'em." 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR        7 
By  Artemus  Ward 

"  Us  poor  wimin  folks  would  git  along  a  grate 
deal  better  if  there  was  no  men  ! " 

"You  '11  excoos  me,  marm,  but  I  don't  think  that 
air  would  work.  It  wouldn't  be  regler." 

"  I  'm  fraid  of  men  ! "  she  sed. 

"That's  onnecessary,  marm.  You  ain't  in  no 
danger.  Don't  fret  yourself  on  that  pint." 

"  Here  we  're  shot  out  from  the  sinful  world. 
Here  all  is  peas.  Here  we  air  brothers  and  sisters. 
We  don't  marry,  and  consekently  we  hav  no  domestic 
difficulties.  Husbans  don't  abooze  their  wives — wives 
don't  worrit  their  husbans.  There  's  no  children  here 
to  worrit  us.  Nothin'  to  worrit  us  here.  No  wicked 
matrimony  here.  Would  thow  like  to  be  a  Shaker?" 

"  No,"  sez  I;   "it  ain't  my  stile." 

I  had  now  histed  in  as  big  a  load  of  pervishuns  as 
I  could  carry  comfortably,  and  leanin'  back  in  my 
cheer,  commenst  pickin'  my  teeth  with  a  fork.  The 
female  went  out,  leavin'  me  all  alone  with  the  clock. 
I  hadn't  sot  thar  long  before  the  Elder  poked  his 
hed  in  at  the  door. 

"You're  a  man  of  sin!"  he  said  and  groaned 
and  went  away. 


8        AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

The  Shakers 

Directly  thar  cum  in  two  young  Shakeresses,  as 
putty  and  slick  lookin'  gals  as  I  ever  met.  It  is  troo 
they  was  drest  in  meal  bags  like  the  old  one  I  'd  met 
previsly,  and  their  shiny,  silky  har  was  hid  from  sight 
by  long  white  caps,  sich  as  I  suppose  female  Josts 
wear;  but  their  eyes  sparkled  like  diminds,  their 
cheeks  was  like  roses,  and  they  was  charmin'  enuff 
to  make  a  man  throw  stuns  at  his  granmother  if  they 
axed  him  to.  They  commenst  clearin'  away  the 
dishes,  castin'  shy  glances  at  me  all  the  time.  I  got 
excited.  I  forgot  Betsy  Jane  in  my  rapter,  and  sez 
I:  "  My  pretty  dears,  how  air  you?" 

"We  air  well,"  they  solumly  sed. 

"Whar  's  the  old  man?"  sed  I,  in  a  soft  voice. 

"Of  whom  dost  thow  speak — Brother  Uriah?" 

"I  mean  the  gay  and  festive  cuss  who  calls  me 
a  man  of  sin.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  his  name  was 
Uriah." 

"He  has  retired." 

"Wall,  my  pretty  dears,"  sez  I,  "let's  have 
sum  fun.  Let's  play  puss -in -the -corner.  What 
say?" 

"Air  you  a  Shaker,  sir?"  they  axed. 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR         9 

By  Artemus  Ward 

"Wall,  my  pretty  dears,  I  haven't  arrayed  my 
proud  form  in  a  long  weskit  yet,  but  if  they  was  all 
like  you,  perhaps  I  'd  jine  'em.  As  it  is,  I  'm  a 
Shaker  pro-temporary." 

They  was  full  of  fun.  I  seed  that  at  fust,  only 
they  was  a  leetle  skeery.  I  tawt  'em  puss-in-the- 
corner  and  sich  like  plase,  and  we  had  a  nice  time, 
keepin'  quiet  of  course,  so  the  old  man  should  n't 
hear.  Whe^n  we  broke  up,  sez  I:  "  My  pretty  dears, 
ear  I  go  you  hav  objections,  hav  you,  to  an  innersent 
kiss  at  partin'?" 

"Yay,"  they  sed,  and  I  yay'J. 

I  went  upstairs  to  bed.  I  spose  I  'd  been  snoozin* 
half  an  hour,  when  I  was  woke  up  by  a  noise  at  the 
door.  I  sot  up  in  bed,  leanin'  on  my  elbers  and 
rubbin'  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  the  follerin'  picter:  The 
Elder  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a  taller  candle  in  his 
hand.  He  hadn't  no  wearin'  appeerel  on  except  his 
night  close,  which  fluttered  in  the  breeze  like  a  Se- 
seshun  flag.  He  sed:  "You're  a  man  of  sin!" 
then  groaned  and  went  away. 

I  went  to  sleep  agin,  and  drempt  of  runnin'  orf 
with  the  pretty  little  Shakeresses  mounted  on  my 


io      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

The  Shakers 

Californy  Bar.  I  thawt  the  Bar  insisted  on  steerin' 
strate  for  my  dooryard  in  Baldinsville,  and  that  Betsy 
Jane  cum  out  and  giv  us  a  warm  recepshun  with  a 
panfull  of  Billin'  water.  I  was  woke  up  arly  by  the 
Elder.  He  sed  refreshments  was  reddy  for  me  down- 
stairs. Then  sayin'  I  was  a  man  of  sin,  he  went 
groanin'  away. 

As  I  was  goin'  threw  the  entry  to  the  room  where 
the  vittles  was,  I  cum  across  the  Elder  and  the  old 
female  I  'd  met  the  night  before,  and  what  d'ye 
spose  they  was  up  to?  Huggin'  and  kissin'  like 
young  lovers  in  their  gushingist  state.  Sez  !:  "My 
Shaker  friends,  I  reckon  you  'd  better  suspend  the 
rules  and  git  married." 

"You  must  excoos  Brother  Uriah,"  sed  the  femile; 
"he's  subjeck  to  fits,  and  hain't  got  no  command 
over  hisself  when  he  's  into  'em." 

"Sartinly,"  sez  I,  "I  've  bin  took  that  way  my- 
self frequent." 

"  You  're  a  man  of  sin  !"  sed  the  Elder. 

Arter  breakfast  my  little  Shaker  frends  cum  in  agin 
to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

"My  pretty  dears,"  sez  I,  "shall  we  yay  agin?" 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      n 

By  Artemus  Ward 

"Nay,"  they  said,  and  I  nay1  d. 

The  Shakers  axed  me  to  go  to  their  meetin',  as 
they  was  to  hav  sarvices  that  mornin',  so  I  put  on  a 
clean  biled  rag  and  went.  The  meetin'  house  was 
as  neat  as  a  pin.  The  floor  was  white  as  chalk  and 
smooth  as  glass.  The  Shakers  were  all  on  hand,  in 
clean  weskits  and  meal  bags,  ranged  on  the  floor  like 
milingtery  companies,  the  mails  on  one  side  of  the 
room  and  the  females  on  tother.  They  commenst 
clappin'  their  hands  and  singin'  and  dancin*.  They 
danced  kinder  slow  at  fust,  but  as  they  got  warmed 
up  they  shaved  it  down  very  brisk,  I  tell  you.  Elder 
Uriah,  in  particler,  exhiberted  a  right  smart  chance  of 
spryness  in  his  legs,  considerin'  his  time  of  life;  and 
as  he  cum  a  double  shuffle  near  where  I  sot,  I 
rewarded  him  with  a  approvin'  smile,  and  sed: 
"  Hunky  boy!  Go  it,  my  gay  and  festive  cuss!" 

"You  're  a  man  of  sin  !  "  he  sed,  continnerin' 
his  shuffle. 

The  Sperret,  as  they  called  it,  then  moved  a  short 
fat  Shaker  to  say  a  few  remarks.  He  said  they  was 
Shakers,  and  all  was  ekal.  They  was  the  purest  and 
Selectest  peple  on  the  yearth.  Other  peple  was 


12      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

The  Shakers 

sinful  as  they  could  be,  but  Shakers  was  all  right, 
Shakers  was  all  goin'  kerslap  to  the  Promist  Land, 
and  nobody  want  goin'  to  stand  at  the  gate  to  bar 
'em  out,  if  they  did  they'd  git  run  over. 

The  Shakers  then  danced  and  sung  agin,  and  arter 
they  was  threw,  one  of  'em  axed  me  what  I  thawt 
of  it. 

Sez  I:   "What  does  it  siggerfy?  " 

"What?"  sezhe. 

"Why,  this  jumpin'  up  and  singin'?  This  long 
weskit  bizness,  and  this  anty-matrimony  idee  ?  My 
friends,  you  air  neat  and  tidy.  Your  lands  is  flowin' 
with  milk  and  honey.  Your  brooms  is  fine,  and  your 
apple  sass  is  honest.  When  a  man  buys  a  keg  of 
apple  sass  of  you  he  don't  find  a  grate  many  shavins 
under  a  few  layers  of  sass — a  little  Game  I  'm  sorry 
to  say  sum  of  my  New  England  ancesters  used  to 
practiss.  Your  garding  seeds  is  fine,  and  if  I  should 
sow  'em  on  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar  probly  I  should 
raise  a  good  mess  of  garding  sass.  You  air  honest  in 
your  dealins.  You  air  quiet,  and  don't  disturb  no- 
body. For  all  this  I  give  you  credit.  But  your 
religion  is  small  pertaters,  I  must  say.  You  mope 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR      13 

By  Artemus  Ward 

away  your  lives  here  in  single  retchidness,  and  as  you 
air  all  by  yourselves  nothing  ever  conflicks  with  your 
pecooler  idees,  except  when  Human  Nater  busts  out 
among  you,  as  I  understan  she  sumtimes  do.  (I  giv 
Uriah  a  sly  wink  here,  which  make  the  old  feller 
squirm  like  a  speared  Eel.)  You  wear  long  weskits 
and  long  faces,  and  lead  a  gloomy  life  indeed.  No 
children's  prattle  is  ever  hearn  around  your  hearth- 
stuns — you  air  in  a  dreary  fog  all  the  time,  and  you 
treat  the  jolly  sunshine  of  life  as  tho'  it  was  a  thief, 
drivin'  it  from  your  doors  by  them  weskits,  and  meal 
bags,  and  pecooler  noshuns  of  yourn.  The  gals 
among  you,  sum  of  which  air  as  slick  pieces  of  cali- 
ker  as  I  ever  sot  eyes  on,  air  syin'  to  place  their  heds 
agin  weskits  which  kiver  honest,  manly  harts,  while 
you  old  heds  fool  yerselves  with  the  idee  that  they  air 
fulfillin'  their  mission  here,  and  air  contented.  Here 
you  air  all  pend  up  by  yerselves,  talkin'  about  the  sins 
of  a  world  you  don't  know  nothin'  of.  Meanwhile 
said  world  continners  to  resolve  around  on  her  own 
axeltree  onct  in  every  twenty-four  hours,  subjeck  to 
the  constitution  of  the  United  States,  and  is  a  very 
pleasant  place  of  residence.  It  *s  a  onnatral,  onrea- 


i4     AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
The  Shakers 

sonable,  and  dismal  life  you  're  leadin'  here.  So  it 
strikes  me.  My  Shaker  friends,  I  now  bid  you  a 
welcome  adoo.  You  hav  treated  me  exceedin'  well. 
Thank  you  kindly,  one  and  all. 

"  A  base  exhibiter  of  depraved  monkeys  and  on- 
principled  wax  works !  V  sez  Uriah. 

"Hello,  Uriah,"  sez  I;  "I'd  most  forgot  you. 
Wall,  look  out  for  them  fits  of  yourn,  and  don't  catch 
cold  and  die  in  the  flour  of  your  youth  and  beauty." 

And  I  resoomed  my  jerney. 


A  Business  Letter 

Ey 

Artemus  Ward 


A    BUSINESS    LETTER 
BY  ARTEMUS  WARD 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE 

SIR. — I'mmovin*  along  —  slowly  along  —  down 
tords  your  place.  My  show  at  present  consists  of 
three  moral  Bares,  a  Kangaroo  (a  amoozin  little  Ras- 
kal  —  'twould  make  you  larf  yerself  to  deth  to  see 
the  little  cuss  jump  up  and  squeal),  wax  figgers  of  G. 
Washington,  Gen.  Taylor,  John  Bunyan,  Capt. 
Kidd,  and  Dr.  Webster  in  the  act  of  killin'  Dr. 
Parkman,  besides  several  miscellanyus  moral  wax 
statoots  of  celebrated  piruts  &  murderers,  &c.,  ekalled 
by  few  &  exceld  by  none.  Now,  Mr.  Editor, 
scratch  orf  a  few  lines  sayin'  how  is  the  show  bizness 
down  to  your  place.  I  shall  have  my  hanbills  dun  at 
your  offiss.  Depend  upon  it.  I  want  you  should 
git  my  hanbills  up  in  flamin'  stile.  Also,  git  up  a 
tremenjus  excitement  in  yr.  paper  'bowt  my  onpara- 
leld  Show.  We  must  fetch  the  public  somhow.  We 
must  wurk  on  their  feelins.  Cum  the  moral  on  'em 


i8      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
A  Business  Letter 

strong.  If  it's  a  temperance  community,  tell  'em  I 
sined  the  pledge  fifteen  minits  arter  Ise  born,  but  on 
the  contery,  ef  your  peple  take  their  tods,  say  Mister 
Ward  is  as  Jenial  a  feller  as  we  ever  met,  full  of  con- 
wivlality,  &  the  life  an  sole  of  the  Soshul  Bored. 
Take,  don't  you?  If  you  say  anythin'  abowt  my 
show,  say  my  snaiks  is  as  harmliss  as  the  new-born 
Babe.  What  a  interestin'  study  it  is  to  see  zewol- 
Ogical  animil  like  a  snaik  under  perfeck  subjection  ! 
My  Kangaroo  is  the  most  lafable  little  cuss  I  ever 
saw.  All  for  15  cents.  I  am  anxyus  to  skewer  your 
infloounce.  I  repeet  in  regard  to  them  hanbills,  that 
I  shall  git  'em  struck  orf  up  to  your  printin'  offiss. 
My  perlitercal  sentiments  agree  with  yours  exactly. 
I  know  thay  do,  becawz  1  never  saw  a  man  whoos 
didn't. 

Respectively  yures, 

A.  WARD. 

P.  S. — You   scratch  my  back  &   He  scratch  your 
back. 


Oats 

By 

Josh  Billings 

(Henry  W.  Shaw) 


OATS 

BY  JOSH  BILLINGS 

OATS  are  a  singular  grain,  perhaps  I  should  say 
plural,  bekauze  thare  izmore  than  one  ov  them. 

They  gro  on  the  top  ov  a  straw,  about  two  foot,  9 
and  one  quarter  inches  hi,  and  the  straw  iz  holler. 

This  straw  iz  interesting  for  its  sukshun. 

Short  pieces  ov  it,  about  8  inches  or  so,  dipt  into 
the  buzzom  ov  a  sherry  cobbler,  with  suckshun  up  the 
entire  cobbler  in  4  minnitts,  bi  the  watch. 

I  never  hav  tried  this,  but  i  kno  lots  ov  young  and 
reliable  men  who  stand  around  reddy  to  prove  this, 
if  sum  boddy  will  fetch  the  cobbler. 

This  suckshun  iz  sed  tew  be  a  ded  sure  thing. 

I  hav  been  told  bi  a  man,  who  iz  a  grate  traveller, 
that  in  the  game  ov  pharaoh,  it  is  the  "splits"  that 
win. 

If  this  iz  true  (reasoning  from  analogy),  I  have 
thought  that  the  splits  in  the  straw  mite  be  in  favor  ov 
the  cobbler,  and  agin  the  suckshun. 

21 


22      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Oats 

But  i  aint  certain  ov  this,  in  fakt  i  hav  lost  confi- 
dence in  most  everything,  that  haz  to  be  proved, 
since  I  got  so  awfully  dizzy,  about  four  years  ago, 
tricing  to  prove  to  the  chaplain  ov  an  engine  company, 
that  lager  beer  waz  not  intoxikating,  but  waz  full 
sister  to  filtered  rane  water. 

If  i  had  time  i  would  relate  more  about  this  circum- 
stanse,  but  i  must  git  back  onto  oats  agin. 

I  like  tew  see  a  man  stik  tite  tew  hiz  text,  if  he  haz 
to  bite  into  it  to  do  it. 

I  should  have  made  a  profitable  minister  az  fur  az 
staying  with  a  text  iz  concerned,  for  when  i  git 
through  with  a  text,  yu  kant  work  what 's  left  ov  it 
into  ennything  else,  not  even  a  rag  karpet. 

Speaking  ov  rag  karpets,  brings  mi  wife  tew  mi 
mind. 

Mi  wife  haz  got  a  kind  ov  hidraphoby,  or  burning 
fever  ov  sum  kind,  for  rag  karpets  in  the  rag,  and  i 
don't  have  but  one  pair  ov  clothes  at  a  time  on  this 
ackount,  and  theze  i  put  to  sleep  under  mi  pillo,  at 
nite,  when  i  go  tew  bed. 

She  watches  mi  clothes  just  az  cluss  az  a  mule  duz 
a  bistander,  and  i  hav  told  all  ov  my  best  friends, 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      23 
By  Josh  Billings 

if  i  am  ever  lost,  and  kant  be  found  soon,  they 
may  look  for  me  in  mi  wife's  last  roll  of  rag 
karpet. 

But  for  all  this,  i  love  mi  wife  with  the  affeckshun 
ov  a  parent  (she  is  several  years  inferior  to  me  in 
age),  and  i  had  rather  be  rag-karpeted  bi  her,  than 
tew  be  honey  fugled,  with  warm  apple  sass>  bi  enny 
other  woman.  But  i  must  git  back  onto  oats  agin. 
Oats  gro  on  the  summit  ov  sum  straw,  and  are  sharp 
at  both  ends. 

They  resemble  shu  pegs  in  looks  and  build,  and  it 
iz  sed,  are  often  mistaken  for  them  by  near-sighted 
hosses  and  shumakers. 

I  don't  intend  this  remark  az  enny  derogativeness 
to  shumakers  in  the  lump,  for  i  hav  often  sed,  in  mi 
inspired  moments,  if  i  couldn't  be  a  shumaker, 
i  would  like  to  be  a  good  lawyer. 

Oats  are  a  phuny  grain;  8  quarts  of  them  will  make 
even  a  stage  hoss  laff,  and  when  a  stage  hoss  laffs,  you 
may  know  he  is  tickled  somewhare. 

This  iz  the  natur  ov  oats  as  a  beverage,  they 
amuze  the  stummuck  ov  the  hoss  with  their  sharp 
ends,  and  then  the  hoss  laffs. 


24      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Oats 

I  hav  never  saw  a  hoss  laff,  but  i  hav  heard  that  it 
could  be  did. 

Thare  iz  a  grate  menny  folks,  ov  good  moral 
karakter,  who  won't  believe  enny thing  unless  they 
kan  see  it ;  theze  kind  of  folks  are  always  the  eazyest 
to  cheat. 

They  wont  beleave  a  rattle-snaik  bight  iz  pizon 
untill  they  tri  it;  this  kind  ov  informashun  alwus  kosts 
more  than  it  iz  aktually  worth. 

It  iz  a  middling  wise  man  who  proffits  bi  hiz  own 
experience,  but  it  iz  a  good  deal  wizer  one,  who  lets 
the  rattle-snaik  bight  the  other  phellow. 

The  Goddess  of  korn  iz  also  the  Goddess  ov  oats, 
and  barley,  and  bukwheat. 

Her  name  iz  Series;  she  is  a  mithological  woman, 
and  like  menny  wimmen  now  a  daze,  she  iz  hard  tew 
lokate. 

Theze  mithology  men,  and  wimmin,  work  well 
enuff  in  poetry,  whare  a  good  deal  ov  lieing  don't 
hurt  the  sense,  but  when  you  kum  right  down  to 
korn  in  the  ear,  or  oats  in  the  bundle,  all  the  gods 
and  goddesses  in  the  world,  kant  warrant  a  good 
crop. 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR      25 
By  Josh  Billings 

It  takes  labor  tew  raize  oats,  and  thrash  them  out, 
but  ov  all  the  lazy  cusses  that  hav  pestered  the  earth, 
since  Adam  waz  a  boy,  the  gods  and  goddesses  hav 
always  been  tew  lazy  to  swet. 

Enny  being  who  haint  never  swet,  dont  kno  what 
he  iz  worth. 

I  would  like  to  see  a  whole  parcell  ov  theze  gods, 
and  goddesses,  in  a  harvest  field,  reaping  lodged  oats, 
in  the  month  of  August,  they  couldn't  earn  their 
pepper-sass. 

Oats  are  sold  bi  weight  or  mezzure,  and  are  seldum 
(or  perhaps,  I  may  say  in  confidence,  never)  sold  by 
count. 

Eggs  and  money  are  counted  out,  but  oats  never. 

It  would  be  well  for  nu  beginners  to  remember 
this,  it  would  save  them  a  good  deal  of  time  on  every 
hundred  bushels  ov  oats. 

Time  iz  sed  tew  be  the  same  az  money;  if  this  iz 
positively  so,  Methuseler  died  rich. 

Methuseler  waz  exactly  999  years  old  when  he 
died;  now  multipli  this  bi  365,  which  would  only  be 
allowing  him  a  dollar  a  day  for  hiz  time,  and  yu  will 
find  just  what  he  waz  worth. 


26      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Oats 

Oats  are  worth  from  40  to  75  cents  a  bushel, 
ackording  tew  their  price,  and  aint  good  for  mutch, 
only  tew  tickle  a  hoss. 

They  will  choke  a  goose  to  deth  quicker  than  a 
paper  of  pins,  and  enny  thing  that  will  choke  a  goose 
to  deth  (i  mean  on  the  internal  side  ov  their  thrut)  iz, 
to  say  the  least  ov  it,  very  skarse. 

Speaking  ov  a  goose;  i  hav  found  out  at  last  what 
makes  them  so  tuff,  it  iz  staying  out  so  mutch  in  the 
cold. 

I  found  this  out  all  alone  by  miself. 

Oats  are  a  very  eazy  krop  to  raize. 

All  yu  hav  got  to  do,  to  raize  sum  oats,  iz  to 
plough  the  ground  deep,  then  manure  it  well,  then 
sprinkle  the  oats  all  over  the  ground,  one  in  a  place, 
then  worry  the  ground  with  a  drag  all  over,  then  set 
up  nites  to  keep  the  chickens  and  woodchucks  out  ov 
them,  then  pray  for  sum  rain,  then  kradle  them  down 
with  a  kradle,  then  rake  them  together  with  a  rake, 
then  bind  them  up  with  a  band,  then  stack  them  up 
in  a  stack,  then  thrash  them  out  with  a  flail,  then 
clean  them  up  with  a  mill,  then  sharpen  both  ends  ov 
them  with  a  knife,  then  stow  them  away  in  a  granary, 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR      27 

By  Josh  Billings 

then  spend  wet  days  and  Sundays  trapping  for  rats 
and  mice. 

It  aint  nothing  but  phun  to  raize  oats  —  try  it. 

One  ov  the  best  ways  to  raize  a  sure  crop  ov  oats, 
and  tew  git  a  good  price  for  the  crop,  iz  tew  feed  4 
quarts  ov  them  tew  a  shanghi  rooster,  then' murder  the 
rooster  suddenly,  and  sell  him  for  25  cents  a  pound, 
crop  and  all. 


Our  Oldest  Inhabitants 

— Two  of  Them 
By 
Josh  Billings 


OUR  OLDEST  INHABITANTS- 
TWO  OF  THEM 

BY  JOSH  BILLINGS 

JOHN  BASCOMB 

JOHN  BASCOMB  iz  now  living  in  Coon  Hollow, 
Raccoon  County,  State  of  Iowa. 

He  iz  196  years  old,  and  kan  read  fine  print  by 
moonlite  33  feet  oph. 

He  remembers  George  Washington  fust  rate,  and 
once  lent  him  10  dollars  teu  buy  a  pair  of  kaff  skin 
boots  with. 

He  fit  in  the  revolushun,  also  in  the  war  ov  1812, 
likewise  in  the  late  melee,  and  sez  he  won't  take  sass 
now  from  enny  man  living. 

He  iz  a  hard-shell  baptiss  by  religion,  and  sez  he 
will  die  for  hiz  religion. 

He  was  konverted  I  50  years  ago,  and  thinks  the 
hard-shell  is  the  tuffest  religion  there  iz  for  every -day 
wear.  He  sez  that  one  hard-shell  baptiss  ken  do 
more  hard  work  on  the  same  vittles  during  a  hot  day 
than  1 5  episkopalites. 


32      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Our  Oldest  Inhabitants — Two  of  Them 

He  haz  alwus  used  plug  tobbako  from  a  child,  and 
sez  he  lernt  how  teu  cheu  bi  watching  a  cow  chea 
her  cud. 

He  has  never  drunk  enny  intoxicating  licker  but 
whiskey,  and  sez  that  no  other  licker  is  helthy.  He 
thinks  three  horn  a  day  iz  enuff  for  helth. 

He  haz  alwus  vited  the  dimokratik  ticket  for  the 
last  170  years,  and  walked,  last  fall  in  sloppy  weather, 
eighteen  miles  to  vote  for  Jim  Buchanan. 

He  haint  seen  a  raleroad  yet,  nor  a  wimmin's  rite 
convenshun. 

His  greatest  desire,  he  tells  me,  iz  teu  see  Genera! 
Jackson,  and  sez  that  he  shall  go  next  year  down  teu 
Tennessee  teu  see  him. 

He  fatted  a  hog  last  year,  with  his  own  hands, 
that  weighed  636  pounds  after  it  was  drest  and  well 
dried  out.  He  iz  very  cheerful,  and  sez  he  won 
7  dollars  on  the  weight  ov  this  hog,  out  ov  one  ov 
the  deakons  ov  the  hard-shell  church.  He  deklares 
this  teu  be  one  uv  the  proudest  acksidents  ov  hiz 
life,  for  the  deakon  waz  known  far  and  near  az  a 
tite  kuss. 

He  tells  me  that  for  ninety  years  he  haz  went  teu 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR       33 
By  Josh  Billings 

bed  at  just  1 7  minnits  after  9,  and  has  arozen  at  pre- 
cisely 5  o'clock  the  next  day. 

The  fust  thing  he  duz  in  the  morning  iz  teu  take  a 
short  drink,  about  two  inches,  and  then  for  an  hour 
before  breakfasst  he  reads  the  almanax.  (7  will  here 
state  that  it  is  "  Josh  Billings'  Farmers'  Almanax  " 
that  be  reads.) 

I  asked  him  hiz  opinyun  ov  gin  and  milk  az  a  fer- 
tilizer. He  pronounced  it  bogus,  and  sed  that  the 
good  old  hard-shell  drink,  whiskey  unadorned,  waz  the 
only  speerits  that  never  went  bak  on  a  man. 

Hiz  habits  are  simple.  For  brekfast  he  generally 
et  four  slices  ov  psalt  pork,  three  biled  pertatoze,  a 
couple  ov  sassagis,  five  hot  bisskit,  a  dozen  ov  hard- 
biled  eggs,  two  kups  ov  rhye  coffe,  a  small  plate  ov 
slapjax,  sum  phew  pickles,  and  cold  cabbage  and 
vinegar,  if  there  waz  enny  left  from  yesterday's 
dinner. 

Hiz  dinner  waz  alwus  a  lite  one,  and  he  seldum 
et  ennything  but  sum  biled  mutton,  sum  korned  beef, 
sum  kold  ham,  and  sum  injun  puddin'  teu  top  oph 
with. 

Hiz  suppers  were  mere  nothing,  and  konsisted  sim- 


34      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Our  Oldest  Inhabitants — Two  of  Them 

ply  ov  kold  psalt  pork,  kold  korned  beef,  kold  biled 
mutton,  and,  once  in  a  grate  while,  a  phew  slices  ov 
kold  ham,  with  mustard  and  hoss  reddish. 

I  examined  hiz  hed,  and  found  that  he  had  all  the 
usual  bumps  in  a  remarkable  state  ov  preservashun. 

He  haz  a  good  ear  for  musik,  and  whisselled  me 
Yankee  Doodle,  with  variashuns. 

He  was  born  a  shumaker,  but  hasn't  done  ennything 
at  the  trade  for  the  last  125  years.  He  enjoys  the 
best  ov  health,  but  just  now  he  is  teething,  which  he 
tells  me  iz  his  seventh  sett. 

He  is  a  firm  beleaver  in  the  Darwin  theory,  and 
sez  he  used  teu  hear  hiz  grate-grandfather  tell  ov  a 
race  ov  men  sumwhar  down  on  the  coast  ov  Florida, 
who  had  sum  little  ov  the  kaudle  appendix  still  re- 
maining. 

On  the  subjekt  ov  marriage  hiz  hed  seems  teu  be 
ded  level.  He  sed  "that  he  had  been  married  15 
times,  and  proposed  again  teu  Hannah  Campbell,  a 
lady  in  the  naberhood,  who  waz  28  years  old. 

I  asked  him  what  he  thought  his  chances  were  for 
obtaining  the  lady's  hand,  and  he  sed  "it  lay  be- 
tween him  and  one  Theodorus  Whitney,  a  traveling 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR       35 
£y  Josh  Billings 

korn  doctor,"  and  added  "  if  Whitney  didn't  look 
out  he  would  enlarge  his  head  for  him." 

Upon  mi  asking  him  what  he  attributed  his  im- 
mense life  and  vigor  to,  he  sed,  in  a  klear  and  distinkt 
voice : 

"To  three  small  horns  ov  whiskey  a  day,  beleaving 
in  the  hard-shell  doktering,  and  voting  unanimously 
the  demokratik  ticket." 

I  thankt  him  very  mutch  for  the  informashun  he  had 
given  me  ov  himself,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  enny 
objekshun  to  mi  putting  it  into  print,  and  he  mani- 
fested a  great  desire  that  i  should  do  so,  not  forget- 
ting teu  make  special  menshun  ov  what  he  had  sed 
about  enlarging  Whitney's  hed  for  him,  for  he  thought 
that  would  klear  him  out  of  the  naberhood. 

I  left  John  Bascomb  after  a  dcliteful  visit  ov  four 
hours,  and  thought  over  teu  miseld  if  thare  waz  enny 
two  rules  for  long  life  that  had  been  thus  far  diskov- 
cred  that  waz  alike. 

The  more  i  thought  ov  this,  the  more  i  wished  i 
could  cum  akrost  Methuseler  for  a  feu  minnits,  and 
hear  him  tell  how  he  managed. 


36      AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR 
Our  Oldest  Inhabitants — Two  of  Them 

ELIZIBETH    MEACHEM 

Lib  Meachem  (az  she  iz  familiarly  called  in  the 
township  whare  she  resides)  iz  one  ov  the  rarest 
gems  ov  extenuated  mortality  that  has  ever  been  mi 
blessed  luk  teu  enkounter. 

She  iz  not  so  old  az  Bascomb  bi  about  two  years, 
being  only  about  194  years  old.  Next  to  Lot's 
wife  she  iz  the  best  preserved  woman  the  world 
kontains. 

I  reached  her  place  ov  residence  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  one  minnit  after  I  told  her  mi  bizzness  her 
tounge  had  a  phull  hed  ov  steam  on,  and  for  three 
hours  it  run  like  a  stream  ov  quicksilver  down  an 
inklined  plain. 

I  asked  her  a  thousand  questions  at  least,  but  not 
one  ov  them  did  she  answer,  but  kept  talking  all  the 
time  faster  r.han  Pocahontas  kan  pace  down  hill  teu 
saddle. 

Az  near  az  i  could  find  out  she  had  lived  194  years 
simply  bekauze  she  couldn't  die  without  cutting  short 
one  ov  her  storys. 

I  asked  her  teu  show  me  her  tongue — I  wanted  to 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR     37 
By  Josh  Billings 

sec  if  that  member  waz  badly  worn  ;  but  she  couldn't 
stop  it  long  enuff  teu  sho  it. 

This  woman  haz  reached  her  enormous  age  without 
enny  partikular  habit. 

She  haz  outlived  every  boddy  she  haz  kum  akrost, 
so  far,  by  out-talking  them. 

The  only  subjekt  that  I  could  for  a  moment  arrest 
the  flood  ov  her  language  with  waz  the  fashions;  but 
this  was  a  subjekt  upon  whitch  i  unfortunately  wan't 
mutch. 

As  a  last  hope  ov  drawing  her  out  upon  sum  fakts 
az  teu  her  mode  ov  life,  i  tutched  upon  that  all-ab- 
sorbing topick  teu  both  old  and  yung — i  refer  now 
teu  matrimony. 

Pier  fust  husband,  it  seemed,  was  a  carpenter, 
and,  teu  use  her  own  words,  "waz  teu  lazy  teu 
talk,  or  teu  listen  while  she  talked,  and  so  he 
died." 

Her  seckond  husband  waz  a  pretty  good  talker,  but 
a  poor  listener,  and,  tharefore,  he  died. 

Her  third  husband  waz  a  deff  and  dum  man,  and, 
az  she  remarked,  "either  he  or  she  had  got  teu  die, 
and  the  man  died." 


38      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Our  Oldest  Inhabitants — Two  of  Them 

Her  fourth  husband  untertook  teu  out-talk  her,  and 
died  early. 

In  this  way  she  went  on  deskribing  her  husbands, 
twelve  in  all. 

Az  i  roze  teu  depart  i  sed  teu  her  sollemly: 

"  ELIZIBETH  MEACHEM,  yu  hav  been  mutch  mar- 
rid,  and  mutch  an  inkosolate  widder — at  what  time 
ov  life  do  yu  think  the  marrid  state  ceazes  teu  be 
preferable  ? ' ' 

She  replied : 

"Yu  must  ask  sumboddy  older  than  i  am." 


The  Interviewer 

By 

Mark  Twain 

(Samuel  L.  Clemens) 


THE    INTERVIEWER 

BY  MARK  TWAIN 

E  nervous,  dapper,  "peart"  young  man  took 
the  chair  I  offered  him,  and  said  he  was  con- 
nected with  the  Daily  Thunderstorm,  and  added: 

"Hoping  it 's  no  harm,  I've  come  to  interview 
you." 

"Come  to  what?" 

"  Interview  you," 

"Ah!  I  see.     Yes — yes.      Um!     Yes — yes." 

I  was  not  feeling  well  that  morning.  Indeed,  my 
powers  seemed  a  bit  under  a  cloud.  However,  I 
went  to  the  bookcase,  and  when  I  had  been  looking 
six  or  seven  minutes,  found  I  was  obliged  to  refer  to 
the  young  man.  I  said: 

"  How  do  you  spell  it?" 

"Spell  what?" 

"  Interview." 

"Oh,  my  goodness!  What  do  you  want  to  spell 
it  for?" 


42      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Interviewer 

"I  don't  want  to  spell  it.  I  want  to  see  what  it 
means." 

"Well,  this  is  astonishing,  I  must  say.  /  can 
tell  you  what  it  means,  if  you — if  you  —  " 

"Oh,  all  right!  That  will  answer,  and  much 
obliged  to  you,  too." 

"In,  in;  ter,  ter;  inter — " 

"Then  you  spell  it  with  an  /.?" 

"Why,  certainly!" 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  took  me  so  long! " 

*'  Why,  my  dear  sir,  what  did  you  propose  to 
spell  it  with?  " 

"Well,  I  —  I  —  I  —  hardly  know.  I  had  the 
Unabridged,  and  I  was  ciphering  around  in  the  back 
end,  hoping  I  might  see  her  among  the  pictures;  but 
it's  a  very  old  edition." 

"Why,  my  friend,  they  wouldn't  have  a  picture 
of  it  even  in  the  latest  e  —  My  dear  sir,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I  mean  no  harm  in  the  world,  but  you 
do  not  look  as  —  as  —  intelligent  as  I  had  expected 
you  would.  No  harm  —  I  mean  no  harm  at  all." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it!  It  has  often  been  said, 
and  by  people  who  would  not  flatter,  that  I  am  quite 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     43 
By  Mark  Twain 

remarkable  in  that  way.  Yes  —  yes ;  they  always 
speak  of  it  with  rapture." 

"I  can  easily  imagine  it.  But  about  this  inter- 
view. You  know  it  is  the  custom  now  to  interview 
any  man  who  has  become  notorious." 

"Indeed!  I  had  not  heard  of  it  before.  It  must 
be  very  interesting.  What  do  you  do  it  with?" 

"Ah,  well  —  well  —  well  —  this  is  disheartening. 
It  ought  to  be  done  with  a  club  in  some  cases ;  but, 
customarily,  it  consists  in  the  interviewer  asking 
questions,  and  the  interviewed  answering  them.  It 
is  all  the  rage  now.  Will  you  let  me  ask  you  certain 
questions,  calculated  to  bring  out  the  salient  points  in 
your  public  and  private  history?  " 

"Oh,  with  pleasure  —  with  pleasure.  I  have  a 
very  bad  memory,  but  I  hope  you  will  not  mind 
that.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  an  irregular  memory, 
singularly  irregular.  Sometimes  it  goes  into  a  gallop, 
and  then  it  will  be  as  much  as  a  fortnight  passing  a 
given  point.  This  is  a  great  grief  to  me." 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  matter,  so  you  will  try  to  do  the 
best  you  can." 

"  I  will.     I  will  put  my  whole  mind  on  it." 


44     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Interviewer 

"  Thanks.     Are  you  ready  to  begin?  " 

"Ready." 

Question.      How  old  are  you? 

Answer.      Nineteen  in  June. 

Q.  Indeed!  I  would  have  taken  you  to  be 
thirty  five  or  six.  Where  were  you  born? 

A.    In  Missouri. 

Q.    When  did  you  begin  to  write? 

A.    In  1836. 

Q.  Why,  how  could  that  be  if  you  are  only 
nineteen  now? 

A.    I  don't  know.   It  does  seem  curious  somehow. 

Q.  It  does  indeed.  Whom  do  you  consider 
the  most  remarkable  man  you  ever  met? 

A.    Aaron  Burr. 

Q.  But  you  never  could  have  met  Aaron  Burr 
if  you  are  only  nineteen  years  — 

A.  Now,  if  you  know  more  about  me  than  I  do, 
what  do  you  ask  me  for? 

Q.  Well,  it  is  only  a  suggestion ;  nothing  more. 
How  did  you  happen  to  meet  Burr? 

A.  Well,  I  happened  to  be  at  his  funeral  one 
day,  and  he  asked  me  to  make  less  noise,  and  — 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      45 
By  Mark  Twain 

Q.  But,  good  heavens!  If  you  were  at  his 
funeral  he  must  have  been  dead;  and  if  he  was 
dead,  how  could  he  care  whether  you  made  a  noise 
or  not? 

A.  I  don't  know.  He  was  always  a  particular 
kind  of  man  that  way. 

Q.  Still,  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  You  say 
that  he  spoke  to  you,  and  that  he  was  dead? 

A.    I  did  n't  say  he  was  dead. 

Q.    But  wasn't  he  dead? 

A.    Well,  some  said  he  was,  some  said  he  wasn't. 

Q.    What  do  you  think? 

A.  Oh,  it  was  none  of  my  business!  It  was  n't 
any  of  my  funeral. 

Q.  Did  you  —  however,  we  can  never  get  this 
matter  straight.  Let  me  ask  you  something  else. 
What  was  the  date  of  your  birth? 

A.    Monday,  October  31,  1693. 

Q.  What!  Impossible!  That  would  make  you  a 
hundred  and  eighty  years  old.  How  do  you  account 
for  that? 

A.    I  don't  account  for  it  at  all. 

Q.    But  you  said  at  first  you  were  only  nineteen, 


46     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Interviewer 

and  now  you  make  yourself  out  to  be  one  hundred 
and  eighty.  It  is  an  awful  discrepancy. 

A.  Why,  have  you  noticed  that?  (Shaking  hands.) 
Many  a  time  it  has  seemed  to  me  like  a  discrepancy; 
but,  somehow,  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind.  How 
quick  you  notice  a  thing. 

Q.  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  as  far  as  it 
goes.  Had  you,  or  have  you,  any  brothers  or  sisters? 

A.  Eh!  I  —  I  —  I  think  so  —  yes  —  but  I  don't 
remember. 

Q.  Well,  that  is  the  most  extraordinary  statement 
I  ever  heard. 

A.    Why,  what  makes  you  think  that? 

Q.  How  could  I  think  otherwise?  Why,  look 
here!  Who  is  this  picture  on  the  wall?  Isn't  that  a 
brother  of  yours? 

A.  Oh,  yes,  yes!  Now  you  remind  me  of  it, 
that  was  a  brother  of  mine.  That's  William,  Bill 
we  called  him.  Poor  old  Bill! 

Q.    Why,  he  is  dead,  then? 

A.  Ah,  well,  I  suppose  so.  We  never  could  tell. 
There  was  a  great  mystery  about  it. 

Q.   That  was  sad,  very  sad.     He  disappeared,  then? 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR     47 
By  Mark  Twain 

A.  Well,  yes,  in  a  sort  of  general  way.  We 
buried  him. 

Q.  Buried  him  !  Buried  him  without  knowing 
whether  he  was  dead  or  not? 

A.    Oh,  no!     Not  that.     He  was  dead  enough. 

Q.  Well,  I  confess  that  I  can  't  understand  this. 
If  you  buried  him,  and  you  knew  he  was  dead  — 

A.    No,  no!  We  only  thought  he  was. 

Q.    Oh,  I  see!  He  came  to  life  again. 

A.    I  bet  he  didn't. 

Q.  Well,  I  never  heard  anything  like  this.  Some- 
body was  dead.  Somebody  was  buried.  Now,  where 
was  the  mystery? 

A.  That 's  just  it !  That 's  it  exactly !  You  see  we 
were  twins  —  defunct  and  I;  and  we  got  mixed  in 
the  bath-tub  when  we  were  only  two  weeks  old,  and 
one  of  us  was  drowned;  but  we  didn't  know  which. 
Some  think  it  was  Bill;  some  think  it  was  me. 

Q.  Well,  that  is  remarkable.  What  do  you 
think? 

A.  Goodness  knows!  I  would  give  whole  worlds  to 
know.  This  solemn,  this  awful  mystery  has  cast  a  gloom 
over  my  whole  life.  But  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  now, 


The  Interviewer 


which  I  have  never  revealed  to  any  creature  before. 
One  of  us  had  a  peculiar  mark,  a  large  mole,  on  the 
back  of  his  left  hand;  that  was  me.  That  child  was 
the  one  that  was  drowned? 

Q.  Very  well,  then,  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any 
mystery  about  it,  after  all. 

A.  You  don't?  Well,  I  do.  Anyway,  I  don't 
see  how  they  could  ever  have  been  such  a  blundering 
lot  as  to  go  and  bury  the  wrong  child.  But,  'sh! 
don't  mention  it  where  the  family  can  hear  it. 
Heaven  knows  they  have  heart-breaking  troubles 
enough  without  adding  this. 

Q.  Well,  I  believe  I  have  got  material  enough  for 
the  present;  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
the  pains  you  have  taken.  But  I  was  a  good  deal  in- 
terested in  that  account  of  Aaron  Burr's  funeral. 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  particular  circum- 
stance it  was  that  made  you  think  Burr  was  such  a 
remarkable  man? 

A.  Oh,  it  was  a  mere  trifle !  Not  one  man  in  fifty 
would  have  noticed  it  at  all.  When  the  sermon  was 
over,  and  the  procession  all  ready  to  start  for  the 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      49 
By  Mark  Twain 

cemetery,  and  the  body  all  arranged  nice  in  the  hearse, 
he  said  he  wanted  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  cemetery, 
and  so  he  got  up,  and  rode  with  tbt  driver. 

The  young  man  reverently  withdrew.      He  was 
very  pleasant  company,  and  I  was  sorry  to  see  him  go. 


Scotty  Briggs  and 
the   Clergyman 
By 
Mark  Twain 


SCOTTY   BRIGGS   AND   THE 
CLERGYMAN 

BY   MARK  TWAIN 

SCOTTY  BRIGGS  choked  and  even  shed  tears; 
but  with  an  effort  he  mastered  his  voice,  and 
said  in  lugubrious  tones  to  the  clergyman: 

"Are  you  the  duck  that  runs  the  gospel-mill  next 
door?" 

"Am  I  the — pardon  me,  I  believe  I  do  not  under- 
stand?" 

With  another  sigh,  and  half-sob,  Scotty  rejoined: 

"Why,  you  see,  we  are  in  a  bit  of  trouble,  and  the 
boys  thought  maybe  you  would  give  us  a  lift,  if  we  'd 
tackle  you;  that  is,  if  I  've  got  the  rights  of  it,  and  you 
are  the  head  clerk  of  the  doxology- works  next  door." 

"I  am  the  shepherd  in  charge  of  the  flock  whose 
fold  is  next  door." 

"The  which?" 

"The  spiritual  adviser  of  the  little  company 
of  believers  whose  sanctuary  adjoins  these  premises." 

53 


54      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Scotty  Briggs  and  the  Clergyman 

Scotty  scratched  his  head,  reflected  a  moment,  and 
then  said: 

"You  ruther  hold  over  me,  pard.  I  reckon  I  can't 
call  that  hand.  Ante  and  pass  the  buck." 

"How?  I  beg  pardon.  What  did  I  understand 
you  to  say?" 

"Well,  you've  ruther  got  the  bulge  on  me.  Or, 
maybe,  we've  both  got  the  bulge,  somehow.  You 
don't  smoke  me,  and  I  don't  smoke  you.  You  see, 
one  of  the  boys  has  passed  in  his  checks,  and  we  want 
to  give  him  a  good  send-off,  and  so  the  thing  I  'm 
on  now  is  to  roust  out  somebody  to  jerk  a  little 
chin-music  for  us,  and  waltz  him  through  hand- 
some." 

"My  friend,  I  seem  to  grow  more  and  more  bewil- 
dered. Your  observations  are  wholly  incomprehensible 
tome.  Cannot  you  simplify  them  in  some  way?  At  first 
I  thought  perhaps  I  understood  you,  but  I  grope  now. 
Would  it  not  expedite  matters  if  you  restricted  your- 
self to  categorical  statements  of  fact  unincumbered  with 
obstructing  accumulations  of  metaphor  and  allegory?  " 

Another  pause  and  more  reflection.  Then,  said 
Scotty : 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      55 
By  Mark  Twain 

"I  Ml  have  to  pass,  I  judge." 

"How?" 

"You  have  raised  me  out,  pard." 

"I  still  fail  to  catch  your  meaning." 

"Why,  that  last  lead  of  yourn  is  too  many  for 
me  —  that's  the  idea.  I  can't  neither  trump  nor 
follow  suit." 

The  clergyman  sank  back  in  his  chair  perplexed. 
Scotty  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  thought.  Presently  his  face  came  up,  sorrowful 
but  confident. 

"I've  got  it  now  so 's  you  can  savvy,"  he  said. 
"What  we  want  is  a  gospel-sharp.  See?" 

"A  what?" 

"  Gospel-sharp.    Parson." 

"Oh!  Why  did  you  not  say  so  before?  I  am 
a  clergyman  —  a  parson." 

"Now  you  talk!  You  see  my  blind,  and  straddle 
it  like  a  man.  Put  it  there!"  extending  a  brawny 
paw,  which  closed  over  the  minister's  small  hand, 
and  gave  it  a  shake  indicative  of  fraternal  sympathy 
and  fervent  gratification. 

"Now  we're  all  right,  pard.     Let's  start  fresh. 


56      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Scotty  Briggs  and  the  Clergyman 

Don't  you  mind  my  snuffling  a  little,  becuz  we  're  in 
a  power  of  trouble.  You  see,  one  of  the  boys  has 
gone  up  the  flume — " 

"Gone  where? " 

"Up  the  flume  —  throwed  up  the  sponge,  you 
understand." 

"Throwed  up  the  sponge?" 

"Yes  —  kicked  the  bucket." 

"Ah!  has  departed  to  that  mysterious  country  from 
whose  bourne  no  traveler  returns." 

"  Return !    I  reckon  not.    Why,  pard,  he  's  dead!  ' ' 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"Oh,  you  do?  Well,  I  thought  maybe  you  might 
be  getting  tangled  some  more.  Yes,  you  see  he  's  dead 
again  — " 

"Again?    Why,  has  he  ever  been  dead  before?" 

"Dead  before?  No!  Do  you  reckon  a  man  has 
got  as  many  lives  as  a  cat?  But  you  bet  you  he  's 
awful  dead  now,  poor  old  boy,  and  I  wish  I  'd  never 
seen  this  day.  I  don't  want  no  better  friend  than 
Buck  Fanshaw.  I  knowed  him  by  the  back;  and 
when  I  know  a  man  and  like  him,  I  freeze  to  him  — 
you  hear  me.  Take  him  all  round,  pard,  there  never 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      57 
£y  Mark  Twain 

was  a  bullier  man  in  the  mines.  No  man  ever  knowed 
Buck  Fanshaw  to  go  back  on  a  friend.  But  it 's  all 
up,  you  know;  it 's  all  up.  It  ain't  no  use.  They  've 
scooped  him." 

"Scooped  him?" 

"Yes;  death  has.  Well,  well,  well,  we've  got 
to  give  him  up.  Yes,  indeed.  It's  a  kind  of  a  hard 
world,  after  all,  aifi' t  it?  But,  pard,  he  was  a  rustler! 
You  ought  to  see  him  get  started  once.  He  was  a  bully 
boy  with  a  glass  eye!  Just  spit  in  his  face  and  give 
him  room  according  to  his  strength,  and  it  was 
just  beautiful  to  see  him  peel  and  go  in.  He  was 
the  worst  son  of  a  thief  that  ever  drawed  breath. 
Pard,  he  was  on  it!  He  was  on  it  bigger  than  an 
Injun!" 

"On  it?     On  what?" 

"On  the  shoot.  On  the  shoulder.  On  the  fight, 
you  understand.  He  did  n't  give  a  continental  for 
anybody.  Beg  your  pardon,  friend,  for  coming  so  near 
saying  a  cuss-word;  but  you  see  I  'm  on  an  awful 
strain,  in  this  palaver,  on  account  of  having  to  camp 
down  and  draw  everything  so  mild.  But  we  've  got 
to  give  him  up.  There  ain't  no  getting  around  that 


58      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Scotty  Briggs  and  the  Clergyman 

I  don't  reckon.  Now,  if  we  can  get  you  to  help 
plant  him  — " 

"  Preach  the  funeral  discourse  ?  Assist  at  the  obse- 
quies?" 

"Obs'quies  is  good.  Yes.  That's  it  —  that's 
our  little  game.  We  are  going  to  get  the  thing  up 
regardless,  you  know.  He  was  always  nifty  himself, 
and  so  you  bet  his  funeral  ain't  going  to  be  no  slouch 
— solid  silver  door-plate  for  his  coffin,  six  plumes  on 
the  hearse,  and  a  nigger  on  the  box  in  a  biled  shirt 
and  a  plug  hat — how  's  that  for  high?  And  we  '11 
take  care  of  you,  pard.  We  '11  fix  you  all  right. 
There'll  be  a  kerridge  for  you;  and  whatever  you 
want,  you  just  '$eape  out  and  we  '11  tend  to  it. 
We  've  got  a  shebang  fixed  up  for  you  to  stand  be- 
hind in  No.  I's  house,  and  don't  you  be  afraid. 
Just  go  in  and  toot  your  horn,  if  you  don't  sell 
a  clam.  Put  Buck  through  as  bully  as  you  can, 
pard,  for  anybody  that  knowed  him  will  tell  you 
that  he  was  one  of  the  whitest  men  that  was  ever  in 
the  mines.  You  can't  draw  it  too  strong.  He  never 
could  stand  it  to  see  things  going  wrong.  He  's  done 
more  to  make  this  town  quiet  and  peaceable  than  any 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR      $9 

By  Mark  Twain 

man  in  it.  I  've  seen  him  lick  four  Greasers  in  eleven 
minutes  myself.  If  a  thing  wanted  regulating,  he 
warn't  a  man  to  go  browsing  around  after  somebody  to 
do  it,  but  he  would  prance  in  and  regulate  it  himself. 
He  warn't  a  Catholic.  Scacely.  He  was  down  on 
'em.  His  word  was,  'No  Irish  need  apply!'  But 
it  did  n't  make  no  difference  about  that  when  it  came 
down  to  what  a  man's  rights  was  —  and  so,  when 
some  roughs  jumped  the  Catholic  bone-yard,  and 
started  in  to  stake  out  town  lots  in  it,  he  went  for  'em! 
And  he  cleaned ''em,  too!  I  was  there,  pard,  and  I 
seen  it  myself." 

"That  was  well,  indeed  —  at  least  the  impulse 
was — whether  the  act  was  strictly  defensible  or  not. 
Had  deceased  any  religious  convictions  ?  That  is  to 
say,  did  he  feel  a  dependence  upon,  or  acknowledge 
allegiance  to,  a  higher  power?" 

More  reflection. 

"I  reckon  you  ' ve  stumped  me  again,  pard.  Could 
you  say  it  over  once  more,  and  say  it  slow?" 

"Well,  to  simplify  it  somewhat,  was  he,  or  rather 
had  he  ever  been  connected  with  any  organization 
sequestered  from  secular  concerns  and  devoted  to  self- 
sacrifice  in  the  interests  of  morality?" 


6o     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Scotty  Briggs  and  the  Clergyman 

"All  down  but  nine — set  'em  up  on  the  other 
alley,  pard." 

"What  did  I  understand  you  to  say?" 

"Why,  you  're  most  too  many  for  me,  you  know. 
When  you  get  in  with  your  left  I  hunt  grass  every 
time.  Every  time  you  draw  your  fill;  but  I  don't 
seem  to  have  any  luck.  Let  's  have  a  new  deal." 

"How?     Begin  again?" 

"That 'sit." 

"Very  well.      Was  he  a  good  man,  and — " 

"There — I  see  that;  don't  put  up  another  chip 
till  I  look  at  my  hand.  A  good  man,  say  you  ? 
Pard,  it  ain't  no  name  for  it.  He  was  the  best  man 
that  ever — pard,  you  would  have  doted  on  that  man. 
He  was  always  for  peace,  and  he  would  have  peace — 
he  could  not  stand  disturbances.  Pard,  he  was  a 
great  loss  to  this  town.  It  would  please  the  boys  if 
you  could  chip  in  something  like  that,  and  do  him 
justice.  Here  once  when  the  Micks  got  to  throwing 
stones  through  the  Methodis'  Sunday-school  win- 
dows, Buck  Fanshaw,  all  of  his  own  notion,  shut  up 
his  saloon  and  took  a  couple  of  six-shooters  and 
mounted  guard  over  the  Sunday-school.  Says  he, 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     61 
By  Mark  Twain 

'No  Irish  need  apply!'  And  they  didn't.  He 
was  the  bulliest  man  in  the  mountains,  pard  !  He 
could  run  faster,  jump  higher,  hit  harder,  and  hold 
more  tangle-foot  whiskey  without  spilling  it  than  any 
man  in  seventeen  counties.  Put  that  in,  pard — it  '11 
please  the  boys  more  than  anything  you  could  say. 
And  you  can  say,  pard,  that  he  never  shook  his 
mother." 

"Never  shook  his  mother?" 
"  That  's  it — any  of  the  boys  will  tell  you  so." 
"Well,  but  why  should  he  shake  her?  " 
"That 's  what  I  say — but  some  people  does." 
"Not  people  of  any  repute." 
"Well,  some  that  averages  pretty  so-so." 
"  In  my  opinion  the  man  that  could  offer  personal 
violence  to  his  own  mother  ought  to — 

"  Cheese  it,  pard;  you  've  banked  your  ball  clean 
outside  the  string.  What  I  was  drivin'  at  was,  that 
he  never  tbrowed  off  on  his  mother  —  don't  you 
see  ?  No,  indeedy !  He  gave  her  a  house  to  live  in, 
and  town  lots,  and  plenty  of  money;  and  he  looked 
after  her,  and  took  care  of  her  all  the  time;  and  when 
she  was  down  with  the  small-pox,  I  'm  d — d  if  he 


62     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Scotty  Briggs  and  the  Clergyman 

did  n't  set  up  nights  and  nuss  her  himself!  Beg  your 
pardon  for  saying  it,  but  it  hopped  out  too  quick  for 
yours  truly.  You  've  treated  me  like  a  gentleman, 
pard,  and  I  ain't  the  man  to  hurt  your  feelings  inten- 
tional. I  think  you  're  white.  I  think  you  're  a 
square  man,  pard.  I  like  you,  and  I  '11  lick  any 
man  that  don't.  I  '11  lick  him  till  he  can't  tell 
himself  from  a  last  year's  corpse!  Put  it  there!" 
[Another  fraternal  hand-shake — and  exit.] 


Milling  in  Pompeii 
* 

Bill  Nye 

(Edgar  Wilson  Nye) 


MILLING   IN   POMPEII 
BY  BILL  NYE 

"IT  7HILE  visiting  Naples  last  fall,  I  took  a  great 
^'  interest  in  the  wonderful  museum  there,  of 
objects  that  have  been  exhumed  from  the  ruins  of  Pom- 
peii. It  is  a  remarkable  collection,  including,  among 
other  things,  the  cumbersome  machinery  of  a  large 
woolen  factory,  the  receipts,  contracts,  statements  of 
sales,  etc.,  etc.,  of  bankers,  brokers,  and  usurers.  I 
was  told  that  the  exhumist  also  ran  into  an  Etruscan 
bucket-shop  in  one  part  of  the  city,  but  owing  to  the 
long,  dry  spell,  the  buckets  had  fallen  to  pieces. 

The  object  which  engrossed  my  attention  the  most, 
however,  was  what  seemed  to  have  been  a  circular 
issued  prior  to  the  great  volcanic  vomit  of  79  A.D., 
and  no  doubt  prior  even  to  the  Christian  era.  As  the 
date  is  torn  off,  however,  we  are  left  to  conjecture  the 
time  at  which  it  was  issued.  I  was  permitted  to  make 
a  copy  of  it,  and  with  the  aid  of  my  hired  man,  I 
have  translated  it  with  great  care: 

65 


66      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Milling  in  Pompeii 

Office  of 
LUCRETIUS  &  PROCALUS, 

Dealers  in 

Flour,  Bran,  Shorts,  Middlings,  Screenings,  Etruscan 
Hen  Feed,  and  Other  Choice  Bric-a-Brac. 

Highest  Cash  Price  Paid  for  Neapolitan  Winter 
Wheat  and  Roman  Corn. 

Why  haul  your  Wheat  through  the  sand  to  Hercu- 
laneum,  when  we  pay  the  same  price  here? 

OFFICE  AND  MILL,  Via  VIII,  near  the  Stabian 
Gate,  Only  Thirteen  Blocks  from  the  P.  O.  Pompeii. 

DEAR  SIR. — This  circular  has  been  called  out  by 
another  one  issued  last  month  by  Messrs.  Toecorneous 
&  Chilblainicus,  alleged  millers  and  wheat  buyers  of 
Herculaneum,  in  which  they  claim  to  pay  a  quarter 
to  a  half  cent  more  per  bushel  than  we  do  for  wheat, 
and  charge  us  with  docking  the  farmers  around  Pom- 
peii a  pound  per  bushel  more  than  necessary  for 
cockle,  wild  buckwheat,  and  pigeon -grass  seed. 
They  make  the  broad  statement  that  we  have  made 
all  our  money  in  this  way,  and  claim  that  Mr. 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR     67 
By  Bill  Nye 

Lucretius,  of  our  mill,  has  erected  a  fine  house,  which 
the  farmers  allude  to  as  the  "wild  buckwheat  villa." 

We  do  not,  as  a  general  rule,  pay  any  attention  to 
this  kind  of  stuff;  but  when  two  snide  romans,  who 
went  to  Herculaneum ,  without  a  dollar,  and  drank 
stale  beer  out  of  an  old  Etruscan  tomato-can  the  first 
year  they  were  there,  assail  our  integrity,  we  feel  like 
making  a  prompt  and  final  reply.  We  desire  to  state 
to  the  Roman  farmers  that  we  do  not  test  their  wheat 
with  the  crooked  brass  tester  that  has  made  more 
money  for  Messrs.  Toecorneous  &  Chilbainicus  than 
their  old  mill  has.  We  do  not  do  that  kind  of  busi- 
ness. Neither  do  we  buy  a  man's  wheat  at  a  cash 
price  and  then  work  off  four  or  five  hundred  pounds 
of  XXXX  Imperial  hog  feed  on  him  in  part  payment. 
When  we  buy  a  man's  wheat  we  pay  him  in  money. 
We  do  not  seek  to  fill  him  up  with  sour  Carthaginian 
cracked  wheat  and  orders  on  the  store. 

We  would  also  call  attention  to  the  improvements 
that  we  have  just  made  in  our  mill.  Last  week  we 
put  a  handle  in  the  upper  burr,  and  we  have  also  en- 
gaged one  of  the  best  head  millers  in  Pompeii  to  turn 
the  crank  day-times.  Our  old  head  miller  will  over- 


68      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Milling  in  Pompeii 

see  the  business  at  night,  so  that  the  mill  will  be  in 
full  blast  day  and  night,  except  when  the  head  miller 
has  gone  to  his  meals  or  stopped  to  spit  on  his 
hands. 

The  mill  of  our  vile  contemporaries  at  Hercula- 
neum,  is  an  old  one  that  was  used  around  Naples  one 
hundred  years  ago  to  smash  rock  for  the  Neapolitan 
road,  and  is  entirely  out  of  repair.  It  was  also  used 
in  a  brick  yard  here  near  Pompeii;  then  an  old  junk 
man  sold  it  to  a  tenderfoot  from  Jerusalem  as  an  ice- 
cream freezer.  He  found  that  it  would  not  work,  and 
so  used  it  to  grind  up  potato  bugs  for  blisters.  Now, 
it  is  grinding  ostensible  flour  at  Herculaneum. 

We  desire  to  state  to  farmers  about  Pompeii  that 
we  aim  to  please.  We  desire  to  make  a  grade  of  flour 
this  summer  that  will  not  have  to  be  run  through  the 
coffee-mill  before  it  can  be  used.  We  will  also  pay 
you  the  highest  price  for  good  wheat,  and  give  you 
good  weight.  Our  capacity  is  now  greatly  enlarged, 
both  as  to  storage  and  grinding.  We  now  turn  out 
a  sack  of  flour,  complete  and  ready  for  use,  every 
little  while.  We  have  an  extra  handle  for  the 
mill,  so  that  in  case  of  accident  to  the  one  now 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      69 

By  Bill  Nye 

in  use,  we  need  not  shut  down  but  a  few 
moments.  We  call  attention  to  our  XXXX  Git-there 
brand  of  flour.  It  is  the  best  flour  in  the  market  for 
making  angels'  food  and  other  celestial  groceries.  We 
fully  warrant  it,  and  will  agree  that  for  every  sack 
containing  whole  kernels  of  corn,  corncobs,  or  other 
foreign  substances,  not  thoroughly  pulverized,  we  will 
refund  the  money  already  paid,  and  show  the  person 
through  our  mill. 

We  would  also  like  to  call  the  attention  of  farmers 
and  housewives  around  Pompeii  to  our  celebrated 
Dough  Squatter.  It  is  purely  automatic  in  its  opera- 
tion, requiring  only  two  men  to  work  it.  With  this 
machine  two  men  will  knead  all  the  bread  they  can 
eat  and  do  it  easily,  feeling  thoroughly  refreshed  at 
night.  They  also  avoid  that  dark  maroon  taste  in  the 
mouth  so  common  in  Pompeii  on  arising  in  the 
morning. 

To  those  who  do  not  feel  able  to  buy  one  of  these 
machines,  we  would  say  that  we  have  made  arrange- 
ments for  the  coming  season,  so  that  those  who  wish 
may  bring  their  dough  to  our  mammoth  squatter  and 
get  it  treated  at  our  place  at  the  nominal  price  of  two 


70     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Milling  in  Pompeii 

bits  per  squat.    Strangers  calling  for  their  squat  or  un- 
squat  dough,  will  have  to  be  identified. 
Do  nor  forget  the  place, 

Via  VIII,  near  Stabian  Gate, 

Lucretius  &  Procalus. 

Dealers  in  choice  family  flour,  cut  feed,  and  oat- 
meal, with  or  without  clinkers  in  it.  Try  our  lump- 
less  bran  for  indigestion. 


All  About  Oratory 
By 

Bill  Nye 


ALL   ABOUT    ORATORY 

BY  BILL   NYE 

T^WENTY  centuries  ago  last  Christmas  there  was 
born  in  Attica,  near  Athens,  the  father  of  oratory, 
the  greatest  orator  of  whom  history  has  told  us.  His 
name  was  Demosthenes.  Had  he  lived  until  this 
spring,  he  would  have  been  2,270  years  old;  but  he 
did  not  live.  Demosthenes  has  crossed  the  mysteri- 
ous river.  He  has  gone  to  that  bourne  whence  no 
traveler  returns. 

Most  of  you,  no  doubt,  have  heard  about  it.  On 
those  who  may  not  have  heard  it,  the  announcement 
will  fall  with  a  sickening  thud. 

This  sketch  is  not  intended  to  cast  a  gloom  over 
your  hearts.  It  was  designed  to  cheer  those  who 
read  it,  and  make  them  glad  they  could  read. 

Therefore  I  would  have  been  glad  if  I  could  have 

spared  them  the  pain  which  this  sudden  breaking  of 

the  news  of  the  death  of  Demosthenes  will  bring. 

But  it  could  not  be  avoided.      We  should  remember 

73 


74     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
All  About  Oratory 

the  transitory  nature  of  life,  and  when  we  are  tempted 
to  boast  of  our  health,  and  strength,  and  wealth, 
let  us  remember  the  sudden  and  early  death  of 
Demosthenes. 

Demosthenes  was  not  born  an  orator.  He  strug- 
gled hard,  and  failed  many  times.  He  was  homely, 
and  he  stammered  in  his  speech ;  but  before  his  death 
they  came  to  him  for  hundreds  of  miles  to  get  him  to 
open  their  county  fairs,  and  jerk  the  bird  of  freedom 
bald-headed  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 

When  Demosthenes' s  father  died,  he  left  fifteen 
talents  to  be  divided  between  Demosthenes  and  his 
sister.  A  talent  is  equal  to  about  $1,000.  I  often 
wish  I  had  been  born  a  little  more  talented. 

Demosthenes  had  a  short  breath,  a  hesitating  speech, 
and  his  manners  were  very  ungraceful.  To  remedy 
his  stammering,  he  filled  his  mouth  with  pebbles  and 
howled  his  sentiments  at  the  angry  sea.  However, 
Plutarch  says  that  Demosthenes  made  a  gloomy  fizzle 
of  his  first  speech.  This  did  not  discourage  him.  He 
finally  became  the  smoothest  orator  in  that  country, 
and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  him  to  fill  the 
First  Baptist  Church  of  Athens  full.  There  are  now 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR       75 
By  Bill  Nye 

sixty  of  his  orations  extant,  part  of  them  written  by 
Demosthenes  and  part  of  them  written  by  his  private 
secretary. 

When  he  started  in,  he  was  gentle,  mild,  and  quiet 
in  his  manner;  but  later  on,  carrying  his  audience 
with  him,  he  at  last  became  enthusiastic.  He  thun- 
dered, he  roared,  he  whooped,  he  howled,  he  jarred 
the  windows,  he  sawed  the  air,  he  split  the  horizon 
with  his  clarion  notes,  he  tipped  over  the  table,  kicked 
the  lamps  out  of  the  chandeliers,  and  smashed  the  big 
bass  viol  over  the  chief  fiddler's  head. 

Oh,  Demosthenes  was  business  when  he  got  started. 
It  will  be  a  long  time  before  we  see  another  off-hand 
speaker  like  Demosthenes,  and  I,  for  one,  have  never 
been  the  same  man  since  I  learned  of  his  death. 

"  Such  was  the  first  of  orators,"  says  Lord  Brougham. 
"At  the  head  of  all  the  mighty  masters  of  speech,  the 
adoration  of  ages  has  consecrated  his  place,  and  the 
loss  of  the  noble  instrument  with  which  he  forged  and 
launched  his  thunders  is  sure  to  maintain  it  unapproach- 
able forever. ' ' 

I  have  always  been  a  great  admirer  of  the  oratory 
of  Demosthenes,  and  those  who  have  heard  both  of 


76      AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR 
All  About  Oratory 

us  think  there  is  a  certain  degree  of  similarity  in  our 
style. 

And  not  only  did  I  admire  Demosthenes  as  an  orator, 
but  as  a  man;  and,  though  I  am  no  Vanderbilt,  I  feel 
as  though  I  would  be  willing  to  head  a  subscription 
list  for  the  purpose  of  doing  the  square  thing  by  his 
sorrowing  wife,  if  she  is  left  in  want,  as  I  understand 
that  she  is. 

I  must  now  leave  Demosthenes  and  pass  on  rapidly 
to  speak  of  Patrick  Henry. 

Mr.  Henry  was  the  man  who  wanted  liberty  or 
death.  He  preferred  liberty,  though.  If  he  could  n't 
have  liberty,  he  wanted  to  die,  but  he  was  in  no  great 
rush  about  it.  He  would  like  liberty,  if  there  was 
plenty  of  it;  but  if  the  British  had  no  liberty  to  spare, 
he  yearned  for  death.  When  the  tyrant  asked  him 
what  style  of  death  he  wanted,  he  said  that  he  would 
rather  die  of  extreme  old  age.  He  was  willing  to  wait, 
he  said.  He  didn't  want  to  go  unprepared,  and  he 
thought  it  would  take  him  eighty  or  ninety  years  more 
to  prepare,  so  that  when  he  was  ushered  into  another 
world  he  wouldn't  be  ashamed  of  himself. 

One  hundred  and  ten  years  ago  Patrick  Henry  said: 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      77 
By  Bill  Nye 

"Sir,  our  chains  are  forged.  Their  clanking  may  be 
heard  on  the  plains  of  Boston.  The  war  is  inevitable, 
and  let  it  come.  I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come!  " 

In  the  spring  of  1860  I  used  almost  the  same  lan- 
guage. So  did  Horace  Greeley.  There  were  four  or  five 
of  us  who  got  our  heads  together  and  decided  that  the 
war  was  inevitable,  and  consented  to  let  it  come. 

Then  it  came.  Whenever  there  is  a  large,  inevitable 
conflict  loafing  around  waiting  for  permission  to  come, 
it  devolves  on  the  great  statesmen  and  bald-headed 
liter  a  ti  of  the  nation  to  avoid  all  delay.  It  was  so  with 
Patrick  Henry.  He  permitted  the  land  to  be  deluged 
with  gore,  and  then  he  retired.  It  is  the  duty  of  the 
great  orator  to  howl  for  war,  and  then  hold  some  other 
man's  coat  while  he  fights. 


My  Mine 
By 

Bill  Nye 


MY   MINE 

BY   BILL   NYE 

T  HAVE  decided  to  sacrifice  another  valuable  piece 
*•  of  mining  property  this  spring.  It  would  not  be 
sold  if  I  had  the  necessary  capital  to  develop  it.  It 
is  a  good  mine,  for  I  located  it  myself.  I  remember 
well  the  day  that  I  climbed  up  on  the  ridge-pole  of 
the  universe,  and  nailed  my  location  notice  to  the 
eaves  of  the  sky. 

It  was  in  August  that  I  discovered  the  Vanderbilt 
claim  in  a  snow-storm.  It  cropped  out  apparently  a 
little  southeast  of  a  point  where  the  arc  of  the  orbit 
of  Venus  bisects  the  Milky  Way,  and  ran  due  east 
eighty  chains,  three  links,  and  a  swivel,  thence  south 
fifteen  paces  and  a  half  to  a  blue  spot  in  the  sky, 
thence  proceeding  west  eighty  chains,  three  links  of 
sausage  and  a  half  to  a  fixed  star,  thence  north  across 
the  lead  to  place  of  beginning. 

The  Vanderbilt  set  out  to  be  a  carbonate  deposit, 
but  changed  its  mind.  I  sent  a  piece  of  the  cropping 
81 


82      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

My  Mine 

to  a  man  over  in  Salt  Lake,  who  is  a  good  assayer 
and  quite  a  scientist,  if  he  would  brace  up  and  avoid 
humor.  His  assay  read  as  follows,  to-wit : 

SALT  LAKE  CITY,  U.  T.,  August  25,  1877. 
MR.    BILL    NVE:    Your    specimen    of    ore,    No. 
35832,  current  series,  has  been  submitted  to  assay, 
and  shows  the  following  result : 

Value 
Metal.  Ounces.  per  ton. 

Gold 

Silver 

Railroad  Iron I 

Pyrites  of  poverty 9 

Parasites  of  disappointment 90 

McVicKER,  Assayer. 

NOTE. — I  also  find  that  the  formation  is  igneous, 
prehistoric,  and  erroneous.  If  I  were  you  I  would 
sink  a  prospect  shaft  below  the  vertical  slide  where 
the  old  red  brimstone  and  preadamite  slag  crosscut  the 
malachite  and  intersect  the  schist.  I  think  that  would 
be  schist  about  as  good  as  anything  you  could  do. 
Then  send  me  specimens,  with  $2  for  assay,  and  we 
shall  see  what  we  shall  see. 

Well,  I  did  n't  know  he  was  "an  humorist,"  you 
see,  so  I  went  to  work  on  the  Vanderbilt  to  try  to  do 
what  Mac.  said.  I  sank  a  shaft  and  everything  else 
I  could  get  hold  of  on  that  claim.  It  was  so  high 
that  we  had  to  carry  water  up  there  to  drink  when 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      83 
By  Bill  Nye 

we  began,  and  before  fall  we  had  struck  a  vein  of  the 
richest  water  you  ever  saw.  We  had  more  water  in 
that  mine  than  the  regular  army  could  use. 

When  we  got  down  sixty  feet  I  sent  some  pieces 
of  the  pay  streak  to  the  assayer  again.  This  time  he 
wrote  me  quite  a  letter,  and  at  the  same  time  inclosed 
the  certificate  of  assay. 

SALT  LAKE  CITY,  U.  T.,  October  3,  1877. 
MR.  BILL  NYE:   Your  specimen  of  ore,  No.  36132, 
current  series,  has  been  submitted  to  assay,  and  shows 

the  following  result : 

Value 
Metal.  Ounces.  per  ton. 

Gold 

Silver 

Stove  Polish trace  .01 

Old  Gray  Whetstone trace  .01 

Bromide  of  Axle  Grease stain 

Copperas trace  5c.  worth 

Blue  Vitriol trace  $c.  worth 

McVicKER,  Assayer. 

In  the  letter  he  said  there  was,  no  doubt,  some- 
thing in  the  claim  if  I  could  get  the  true  contact  with 
calcimine  walls  denoting  a  true  fissure.  He  thought 
I  ought  to  run  a  drift.  I  told  him  I  had  already 
run  adrift. 

Then  he  said  to  stope  out  my  stove  polish  ore,  and 
sell  it  for  enough  to  go  on  with  the  development.  I 


84     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
My  Mine 

tried  that,  but  capital  seemed  .coy.  Others  had  been 
there  before  me,  and  capital  bade  me  soak  my  head, 
and  said  other  things  which  grated  harshly  on  my 
sensitive  nature. 

The  Vanderbilt  mine,  with  all  its  dips,  spurs,  an- 
gles, variations,  veins,  sinuosities,  rights,  titles,  fran- 
chises, prerogatives,  and  assessments  now  for  sale. 
1  sell  it  in  order  to  raise  the  necessary  funds  for  the 
development  of  the  Governor  of  North  Carolina.  I 
had  so  much  trouble  with  water  in  the  Vanderbilt, 
that  I  named  the  new  claim  the  Governor  of  North 
Carolina,  because  he  was  always  dry. 


Samantha  at  Saratoga 

By 

Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

(Marietta  Holley) 


SAMANTHA  AT    SARATOGA* 

'"THE  idee  on't  come  to  me  one  day  about  sun- 
*  down,  or  a  little  before  sundown.  I  was  a  settin' 
in  calm  peace,  and  a  big  rockin'  chair  covered  with  a 
handsome  copperplate,  a  readin'  what  the  Sammist 
says  about  "Vanity,  vanity,  all  is  vanity."  The 
words  struck  deep,  and  as  I  said,  it  was  jest  that  very 
minute  that  the  idee  struck  me  about  goin*  to  Sara- 
toga. Why  I  should  have  had  the  idee  jest  at  that 
minute  I  can't  tell,  nor  Josiah  can't.  We  have  talked 
about  it  sense. 

But  good  land  !  such  creeters  as  thoughts  be  never 
wuz,  nor  never  will  be.  They  will  creep  in,  and 
round,  and  over  everything,  and  get  inside  your  mind 
(entirely  unbeknown  to  you)  at  any  time.  Curious, 
hain't  it  ?  How  you  may  try  to  hedge  'em  out,  and 
shet  the  doors  and  everything.  But  they  will  creep 
up  into  your  mind,  climb  up  and  draw  up  their  lad- 
ders, and  there  they  will  be,  and  stalk  round  inde- 
pendent as  if  they  owned  your  hull  head  ;  curious ! 
87 


88      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Samantha  at  Saratoga 

Well,  there  the  idee  wuz — I  never  knew  nothin' 
about  it,  nor  how  it  got  there.  But  there  it  wuz, 
lookin'  me  right  in  the  face  of  my  soul,  kinder  pert 
and  saucy,  sayin',  "You'd  better  go  to  Saratoga 
next  summer;  you  and  Josiah." 

But  I  argued  with  it.  Sez  I:  "What  should  we 
go  to  Saratoga  for?  None  of  the  relations  live  there 
on  my  side,  or  on  hisen;  why  should  we  go?" 

But  still  that  idee  kep'  hantin'  me;  "You  'd  better 
go  to  Saratoga  next  summer,  you  and  Josiah."  And 
it  whispered,  "  Mebby  it  will  help  Josiah' s  corns." 
(He  is  dretful  troubled  with  corns.)  And  so  the 
idee  kep'  a  naggin'  me;  it  nagged  me  for  three  days 
and  three  nights  before  I  mentioned  it  to  my  Josiah. 
And  when  I  did,  he  scorfed  at  the  idee.  He  said, 
"The  idee  of  water  curing  them  dumb  corns — " 

Sez  I,  "Josiah  Allen,  stranger  things  have  been 
done."  Sez  I,  "That  water  is  very  strong.  It 
does  wonders." 

And  he  scorfed  again,  and  sez,  "  Don't  you  be- 
lieve faith  could  cure  'em  ?" 

Sez  I,  "If  it  wuz  strong  enough  it  could." 

But  the  thought  kep'  a  naggin'  me  stiddy,  and  then 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      89 
By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

—  here  is  the  curious  part  of  it — the  thought  nagged 
me,  and  I  nagged  Josiah;  or,  not  exactly  nagged, 
not  a  clear  nag;  I  despise  them,  and  always  did.  But 
I  kinder  kep'  it  before  his  mind  from  day  to  day,  and 
from  hour  to  hour.  And  the  idee  would  keep  a  tellin' 
me  things,  and  I  would  keep  a  tellin'  'em  to  my  com- 
panion. The  idee  would  keep  A  sayin'  to  me:  "It 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  our  native  land. 
The  waters  will  help  you,  the  inspirin*  music,  and 
elegance  and  gay  enjoyment  you  will  find  there,  will 
sort  a  uplift  you.  You  had  better  go  there  on  a 
tower";  and  again  it  sez,  "  Mebby  it  will  help 
Josiah's  corns." 

And  old  Dr.  Gale  a  happenin'  in  about  that  time, 
I  asked  him  about  it.  (He  doctored  me  when  I  was 
a  baby,  and  I  have  helped  'em  for  years.  Good  old 
creetur,  he  don't  get  along  as  well  as  he  ort  to. 
Loontown  is  a  healthy  place.)  I  told  him  about  my 
strong  desire  to  go  to  Saratoga,  and  I  asked  him  plain 
if  he  thought  the  water  would  help  my  partner's  corns. 
'  And  he  looked  dredful  wise,  and  he  riz  up  and  walked 
across  the  floor  2  and  fro  several  times,  probably  3 
times  to,  and  the  same  number  of  times  fro,  with  his 


9o     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

arms  crossed  back  under  the  skirt  of  his  coat,  and  his 
eyebrows  knit  in  deep  thought,  before  he  answered 
me.  Finely  he  said  that  modern  science  had  not 
fully  demonstrated  yet  the  direct  bearing  of  water  on 
corn.  In  some  cases  it  might,  and  probably  did, 
stimulate  'em  to  greater  luxuriance,  and  then  again  a 
great  flow  of  water  might  retard  their  growth. 

Sez  I,  anxiously,  "  Then  you  'd  advise  me  to  go 
there  with  him  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,"  sez  he,  "on  the  hull,  I  advise  you  to  go." 

Them  words  I  reported  to  Josiah,  and  sez  I,  in 
anxious  axents,  "Dr.  Gale  advises  u  to  go." 

And  Josiah  sez,  "  I  guess  I  sha'n't  mind  what  that 
old  fool  sez." 

Them  wuz  my  partner's  words,  much,  as  I  hate  to 
tell  'em.  But  from  day  to  day  I  kep'  it  stiddy  before 
him,  how  dang'r'us  it  was  to  go  ag'inst  a  doctor's 
advice.  And  from  day  to  day  he  would  scorf  at 
the  plan.  And  I,  ev'ry  now  and  then,  and  mebby 
oftener,  would  get  him  an  extra  good  meal,  and 
attack  him  on  the  subject  immegatly  afterwards.  But 
all  in  vain.  And  I  see  that  when  he  had  that  im- 
movible  sotness  onto  him,  one  extra  meal  would  n't 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR      91 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

soften  or  molify  him.  No,  1  see  plain  I  must  make 
a  more  voyalent  effort.  And  I  made  it.  For  three 
stiddy  days  I  put  before  that  man  the  best  vittles  that 
these  hands  could  make,  or  this  brain  could  plan. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  third  day  I  gently  tackled 
him  agin  on  the  subject,  and  his  state  wuz  such, 
bland,  serene,  happified,  that  he  consented  without  a 
parlay.  And  so  it  wuz  settled  that  the  next  summer 
we  wuz  to  go  to  Saratoga.  And  he  began  to  count 
on  it,  and  make  preparation  in  a  way  that  I  hated 
to  see. 

Yes,  from  the  very  minute  our  two  minds  wuz 
made  up  to  go  to  Saratoga  Josiah  Allen  wuz  set  on 
havin'  sunthin'  new  and  uneek  in  the  way  of  dress 
and  whiskers.  I  looked  coldly  on  the  idee  of  puttin' 
a  gay  stripe  down  the  legs  of  the  new  pantaloons  I 
made  for  him,  and  broke  it  up,  also  a  figured  vest. 
I  went  through  them  two  crisises  and  came  out 
triumphant. 

Then  he  went  and  bought  a  new  bright  pink  neck- 
tie, with  broad  long  ends,  which  he  intended  to  have 
float  out  down  the  front  of  his  vest.  And  I  im- 
megatly  took  it  for  the  light  colored  blocks  in  my 


92      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

silk  log-cabin  bed-quilt.  Yes,  I  settled  the  matter 
of  that  pink  neck-gear  with  a  high  hand  and  a  pair 
of  shears.  And  Josiah  sez  now  that  he  bought  it 
for  that  purpose,  for  the  bed -quilt,  because  he  loves 
to  see  a  dressy  quilt — sez  he  always  enjoys  seein'  a 
cabin  look  sort  o'  gay.  But  good  land  !  he  did  n't. 
He  intended  and  calculated  to  wear  that  necktie  into 
Saratoga — a  sight  for  men  and  angels — if  I  had  n't 
broke  it  up. 

But  in  the  matter  of  whiskers,  there  I  wuz  power- 
less. He  trimmed  'em  (unbeknown  to  me)  all  off 
the  side  of  his  face,  them  good,  honerable  side  whiskers 
of  hisen,  that  had  stood  by  him  for  years  in  solemnity 
and  decency,  and  begun  to  cultivate  a  little  patch  on 
the  end  of  his  chin.  I  argued  with  him,  and  talked 
well  on  the  subject,  elequcnt,  but  it  wuz  of  no  use, 
I  might  as  well  have  argued  with  the  wind  in 
March. 

He  said  he  wuz  bound  on  goin'  into  Saratoga  with 
a  fashionable  whisker,  come  what  would. 

And  then  I  sithed,  and  he  sez:  "You  have  broke 
up  my  pantaloons,  my  vest,  and  my  necktie;  you 
have  ground  me  down  onto  plain  broadcloth,  but  in 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR      93 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

the  matter  of  whiskers,  I  am  firm  !  Yes,"  sez  he, 
"on  these  whiskers  I  take  my  stand  !" 

And  agin  I  sithed  heavy,  and  I  sez  in  a  dretful  im- 
pressive way,  as  I  looked  on  'em,  "  Josiah  Allen, 
remember  you  are  a  father  and  a  grandfather  !" 

And  he  sez  firmly,  "  If  I  wuz  a  great-grandfather 
I  would  trim  my  whiskers  in  jest  this  way;  that  is,  if 
I  wuz  a  goin'  to  set  up  to  be  fashionable  and  a  goin' 
to  Saratoga  for  my  health." 

And  I  groaned  kinder  low  to  myself,  and  kep' 
hopin'  that  mebby  they  would  n't  grow  very  fast, 
or  that  some  axident  would  happen  to  'em,  that  they 
would  get  afire  or  sunthin'.  But  they  didn't.  And 
they  grew  from  day  to  day  luxurient  in  length,  but 
thin.  And  his  watchful  care  kep'  'em  from  axi- 
dent, and  I  wuz  too  high  princepled  to  set  fire  to  'em 
when  he  wuz  asleep,  though  sometimes,  on  a  moon- 
light night,  I  wuz  tempted  to,  sorely  tempted. 

But  I  did  n't,  and  they  grew  from  day  to  day,  till 
they  wuz  the  curiusest  lookin'  patch  o'  whiskers  that 
I  ever  see.  And  when  we  sot  out  for  Saratoga,  they 
wuz  jest  about  as  long  as  a  shavin'  brush,  and  looked 
some  like  one.  There  wuz  no  look  of  a  class-leader 


94      AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Samantha  at  Saratoga 

and  a  perfesscr  about  'em,  and  I  tcld  him  so.  But 
he  worshiped  'em,  and  gloried  in  the  idee  of  goin' 
afar  to  show  'em  off. 

But  the  neighbors  received  the  news  that  we  wuz 
goin'  to  a  waterin'  place  coldly,  or  with  ill-con- 
cealed envy. 

Uncle  Jonas  Bentley  told  us  he  should  n't  think 
we  'd  want  to  go  round  to  waterin'  troughs  at 
our  age. 

And  I  told  him  it  wuz  n't  a  waterin'  trough,  and 
if  it  wuz,  I  thought  our  age  wuz  jest  as  good  a  one 
as  any,  to  go  to  it. 

He  had  the  impression  that  Saratoga  was  a  immense 
waterin'  trough  where  the  country  all  drove  them- 
selves summers  to  be  watered.  He  is  deef  as  a 
hemlock  post,  and  I  yelled  up  at  him  jest  as  loud  as 
I  dast  for  fear  of  breakin'  open  my  own  chest,  that 
the  water  got  into  us,  instid  of  our  gettin'  into  the 
water,  but  I  did  n't  make  him  understand,  for  I  hearn 
afterwards  of  his  sayin'  that,  as  nigh  as  he  could  make 
out,  we  all  got  into  the  waterin'.  trough  and  wuz 
watered. 

The   school   teacher,   a   young   man    with    long, 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR     95 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

small  lims,  and  some  pimply  on  the  face,  but  well 
meanin',  he  sez  to  me,  "Saratoga  is  a  beautiful 
spah." 

And  I  sez  warmly:  "It  ain't  no  such  thing,  it  is 
a  village,  for  I  have  seen  a  peddler  who  went  right 
through  it,  and  watered  his  horses  there,  and  he  sez 
it  is  a  waterin'  place,  and  a  village." 

"Yes,"  sez  he,  "it  is  a  beautiful  village,  a  modest, 
retiren  city,  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  the  most  noted 
spah  on  this  continent." 

I  would  n't  contend  with  him,  for  it  wuz  on  the 
stoop  of  the  meetin'  house,  and  I  believe  in  bein' 
reverent.  But  I  knew  it  wuz  n't  no  "spah" — that 
had  a  dreadful  flat  sound  to  me.  And  any  way,  I 
knew  I  should  face  its  realities  soon,  and  know  all 
about  it.  Lots  of  wimen  said  that  for  anybody  who 
lived  right  on  the  side  of  a  canal,  and  had  two  good 
cisterns  on  the  place,  and  a  well,  they  did  n't  see  why 
I  should  feel  in  a  sufferin'  condition  for  any  more 
water ;  and  if  I  did,  why  did  n't  I  ketch  rain-water  ? 

Such  wuz  some  of  the  deep  arguments  they  brung 
up  against  my  embarkin'  on  this  enterprise;  they 
talked  about  it  sights  and  sights — why,  it  lasted  the 


96      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

neighbors  for  a  stiddy  conversation  till  along  about 
the  middle  of  the  winter.  Then  the  minister's  wife 
bought  a  new  alpacky  dress — unbeknown  to  the 
church  till  it  wuz  made  up — and  that  kind  o'  drawed 
their  minds  off  o'  me  for  a  spell. 

Aunt  Polly  Pixley  wuz  the  only  one  who  received 
the  intelligence  gladly.  And  she  thought  she  would 
go,  too.  She  had  been  kinder  run  down,  and  most 
bed-rid  for  years.  And  I  encouraged  Aunt  Polly  in 
the  idee,  for  she  wuz  well  off.  Yes,  Mr.  and  Miss 
Pixley  wuz  very  well  off,  though  they  lived  in  a  little 
mite  of  a  dark,  low,  lonesome  house,  with  some  tall 
Pollard  willows  in  front  of  the  door  in  a  row,  and 
jest  across  the  road  from  a  graveyard. 

Her  husband  had  been  close,  and  wuz  n't  willin'  to 
have  any  other  luxury  or  means  of  recreation  in  the 
house  only  a  bass  viol  that  had  been  his  father's — he 
used  to  play  on  that  for  hours  and  hours.  I  thought 
that  wuz  one  reason  why  Polly  wuz  so  nervous.  I 
said  to  Josiah  that  it  would  have  killed  me  outright  to 
have  that  low  grumblin'  goin'  on  from  day  to  day,  and 
to  look  at  them  tall  lonesome  willows  and  grave  stuns. 

But,  howsumever,  Polly's  husband  had  died  durin' 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR      97 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

the  summer,  and  Polly  parted  with  the  bass  viol  the 
day  after  the  funeral.  She  got  out  some  now,  and 
wuz  quite  wrought  up  with  the  idee  of  goin'  to 
Saratoga. 

But  Sister  Minkley,  sister  in  the  church,  and  sister- 
in-law  by  reason  of  Whitefield,  sez  to  me,  that  she 
should  think  I  would  think  twice  before  I  danced  and 
waltzed  round  waltzes. 

And  I  sez,  "I  hain't  thought  ov  doin'  it;  I  hain't 
thought  ov  dancin'  round  or  square  or  any  other 
shape." 

Sez  she,  "  You  have  got  to,  if  you  go  to  Saratoga." 

Sez  I,  "Not  while  life  remains  in  this  frame." 

And  old  Miss  Bobbet  came  up  that  minute  —  it 
wuz  in  the  store  that  we  were  a  talkin' — and  sez 
she,  "It  seems  to  me,  Josiah  Allen's  wife,  that  you 
are  too  old  to  wear  low-necked  dresses  and  short 
sleeves." 

"And  I  should  think  you'd  take  cold  a  goin' 
bearheaded,"  sez  Miss  Luman  Spink,  who  wuz 
with  her. 

Sez  I,  lookin'  at  'em  coldly,  "Are  you  lunys,  or 
has  softness  begun  on  your  brains  ? ' ' 


98      AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

"Why,"  sez  they,  "you  are  talkin'  about  goin' 
to  Saratoga,  hain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  sez  I. 

"Well,  then,  you  have  got  to  wear  'em,"  says 
Miss  Bobbet.  "  They  don't  let  anybody  inside  ov 
the  incorporation  without  they  have  got  on  a  low- 
necked  dress  and  short  sleeves." 

"And  bear-headed,"  says  Miss  Spink;  "if  they 
have  got  a  thing  on  their  heads  they  won't  let  'em 
in." 

Sez  I,  "  I  don't  believe  it." 

Sez  Miss  Bobbet:  "It  is  so,  for  I  hearn  it,  and 
hearn  it  straight.  James  Bobbet' s  wife's  sister  had  a 
second  cousin  that  lived  neighbor  to  a  woman  whose 
niece  had  been  there;  been  right  there  on  the  spot. 
And  Celestine  Bobbet,  Uncle  Ephraim's  Celestine, 
hearn  it  from  James's  wife  when  she  wuz  up  there 
last  spring;  it  come  straight.  They  all  have  to  go  in 
low-necks." 

"And  not  a  mite  of  anything  on  their  heads," 
says  Miss  Spink. 

Sez  I,  in  sarcasticle  axents,  "Do  men  have  to  go 
in  low-necks,  too?" 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR      99 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

"No,"  says  Miss  Bobbet,  "but  they  have  to 
have  the  tails  of  their  coats  kinder  pinted.  Why,"  sez 
she,  "I  hearn  of  a  man  that  got  clear  to  the  incor- 
poration, and  they  wouldn't  let  him  in  because  his 
coat  kinder  rounded  off  round  the  bottom;  so  he  went 
out  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  pinned  up  his  coat- 
tails  into  a  sort  of  a  pinted  shape,  and  good  land !  the 
incorporation  let  him  right  in,  and  never  said  a  word." 

I  contended  that  these  things  wuz  n't  so,  but  I 
found  it  wuz  the  prevailin'  opinion.  For  when  I 
went  to  see  the  dressmaker  about  makin'  me  a  dress 
for  the  occasion,  I  see  she  felt  just  like  the  rest  about 
it.  My  dress  wuz  a  good  black  alpacky.  I  thought  I 
would  have  it  begun  along  in  the  edge  of  the  winter, 
when  she  did  n't  have  so  much  to  do,  and  also  to 
have  it  done  on  time.  We  laid  out  to  start  on  the 
follerin*  July,  and  I  felt  that  I  wanted  everything 
ready. 

I  bought  the  dress  the  jth  day  of  November,  early 
in  the  forenoon,  the  next  day  after  my  pardner  con- 
sented to  go,  and  gave  65  cents  a  yard  for  it,  double 
wedth.  I  thought  I  could  get  it  done  on  time;  dress- 
makers are  drove  a  good  deal.  But  I  felt  that  a 


ioo   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

dressmaker  could  commence  a  dress  in  November 
and  get  it  done  the  follerin'  July,  without  no  great 
strain  bein'  put  onto  her;  and  I  am  fur  from  bein' 
the  one  to  put  strains  onto  wimmen,  and  hurry  'em 
beyend  their  strength.  But  I  felt  Alminy  had  time 
to  make  it  on  honor  and  with  good  buttonholes. 

"Well,"  she  sez,  the  first  thing  after  she  had 
unrolled  the  alpacky,  and  held  it  up  to  the  light  to 
see  if  it  wuz  firm,  sez  she,  "  I  s'pose  you  are  goin' 
to  have  it  made  with  a  long  train,  and  low  neck, 
and  short  sleeves,  and  the  waist  all  girted  down  to  a 
taper?" 

I  wuz  agast  at  the  idee,  and  to  think  Alminy 
should  broach  it  to  me,  and  I  give  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind  that  must  have  lasted  her  for  days  and  days. 
It  wuz  a  long  piece,  and  firm  as  iron.  But  she  is  a 
woman  who  likes  to  have  the  last  word,  and  carry 
out  her  own  idees,  and  she  insisted  that  nobody  wuz 
allowed  in  Saratoga  —  that  they  wuz  outlawed,  and 
laughed  at — if  they  did  n't  have  trains,  and  low 
necks,  and  little  mites  of  waists  no  bigger  than  pipe- 
stems. 

Sez  I,   "Alminy  Hagidone,  do  you  s'pose  that  I, 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     101 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

a  woman  of  my  age;  and  a  member  of  the  meetin' 
house,  am  a  goin'  to  wear  a  low-necked  dress?" 

"Why  not?"  sez  she;  "it  is  all  the  fashion,  and 
wimmen  as  old  agin  as  you  be  wear  'em." 

"Well,"  sez  I,  "it  is  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  if 
they  do,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  wickedness  of  it.  Who 
do  you  s'pose  wants  to  see  their  old  skin  and  bones  ? 
It  hain't  nothin'  pretty  anyway.  And  as  fer  the 
waists  bein'  all  girted  up  and  drawed  in,  that  is 
nothin'  but  crushed  bones  and  flesh  and  vitals,  that 
is  just  crowdin'  doen  your  insides  into  a  state  of  dis- 
ease and  deformity,  torturin'  your  lungs  so  's  you 
can't  breathe,  it  is  nothin'  but  slow  murder  anyway, 
and  if  I  ever  take  it  into  my  head  to  kill  myself, 
Alminy  Hagidone,  I  hain't  a  goin'  to  do  it  in  a  way 
of  perfect  torture  and  torment  to  me;  I  'd  ruther  be 
drownded." 

She  quailed,  and  I  sez,  "  I  am  one  that  is  goin' 
to  take  good  long  breaths  to  the  very  last."  She  see 
I  wuz  like  iron  aginst  the  idee  of  bein'  drawed  in, 
and  tapered,  and  she  desisted.  I  s'pose  I  did  look 
skairful.  But  she  seemed  still  to  cling  to  the  idee  of 
low  necks  and  trains,  and  she  sez,  sort  of  rebukinly: 


102   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Samantha  at  Saratoga 

"Ypu  ortn't  to  go  to  Saratoga  if  you  hain't  willin' 
to  do  as  the  rest  do.  I  s'pose,"  sez  she,  dreamily, 
"  the  streets  are  full  of  wimmen  a  walkin'  up  and 
down  with  long  trains  a  hangin'  down  and  sweepin' 
the  streets,  and  ev'ry  one  on  'em  with  low  necks  and 
short  sleeves,  and  all  on  'em  a  flirtin'  with  some 
man." 

"Truly,"  sez  I,  "if  that  is  so,  that  is  why  the 
idee  come  to  me.  I  am  needed  there.  I  have  a  high 
mission  to  perform  about.  But.  I  don't  believe  it 
is  so." 

"Then  you  won't  have  it  made  with  a  long 
train  ?"  sez  she,  a  holdin'  up  a  breadth  of  the  alpacky 
in  front  of  me  to  measure  the  skirt. 

"No  mom!"  sez  I,  and  there  wuz  both  dignity 
and  deep  resolve  in  that  'mom. '  It  wuz  as  stern  and 
firm-principled  a  'mom*  as  I  ever  see,  though  I  say 
it  that  should  n't.  And  I  see  it  skairt  her.  She  meas- 
ured off  the  breadths  kinder  trembly,  and  seemed  so 
anxious  to  pacify  me  that  she  got  it  a  leetle  shorter 
in  the  back  than  it  wuz  in  the  front.  And  (for  the 
same  reason)  it  fairly  choked  me  in  the  neck,  it  wuz 
so  high,  and  the  sleeves  wuz  that  long  that  I  told 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    103 

By  Josiah  Allen's  Wife 

Josiah  Allen  (in  confidence)  I  wuz  tempted  to  knit 
some  loops  across  the  bottom  of  'em  and  wear  'em 
for  mits. 

But  I  did  n't,  and  I  did  n't  change  the  dress,  neither. 
Thinkses  I,  mebby  it  will  have  a  good  moral  effect  on 
them  other  old  wimmen  there.  Thinkses  I,  when 
they  see  another  woman  melted  and  shortened  and 
choked  fur  principle's  sake,  mebby  they  will  pause  in 
their  wild  careers. 

Wall,  this  wuz  in  November,  and  I  wuz  to  have 
the  dress,  if  it  wuz  a  possible  thing,  by  the  middle 
of  April,  so  's  to  get  it  home  in  time  to  sew  some  lace 
in  the  neck.  And  so  havin'  everything  settled  about 
goin'  I  wuz  calm  in  my  frame  most  all  the  time,  and 
so  wuz  my  pardner. 

And  right  here,  let  me  insert  this  cue  word  of  wis- 
dom for  the  special  comfort  of  my  sect,  and  yet  it  is 
one  that  may  well  be  laid  to  heart  by  the  more  oppo- 
site one.  If  your  pardner  gets  restless  and  oneasy, 
and  middlin'  cross,  as  pardners  will  be  anon,  or  even 
oftener,  start  'em  off  on  a  tower.  A  tower  will  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten  lift  'em  out  of  their  oneasiness, 
their  restlessness,  and  their  crossness. 


io4   AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR 

Samantha  at  Saratoga 

Why  this  is  so  I  cannot  tell,  no  more  than  I  can 
explain  other  mysteries  of  creation,  but  I  know  it  is 
so.  I  know  they  will  come  home  more  placider,  more 
serener,  and  more  settled-downer.  Why  I  have  known 
a  short  tower  to  Slab  City  or  Loontown  act  like  a 
charm  on  my  pardner,  when  crossness  wuz  in  his 
mean,  and  snappishness  wuz  present  with  him.  I 
have  known  him  to  set  off  with  the  mean  of  a  lion 
and  come  back  with  the  liniment  of  a  lamb.  Curious, 
hain't  it? 

And  jest  the  prospect  of  a  tower  ahead  is  a  great 
help  to  a  woman  in  rulin'  and  keepin'  a  pardner 
straight  and  right  in  his  liniments  and  his  acts.  Some- 
how jest  the  thought  of  a  tower  sort  a  lifts  him  up  in 
mind,  and  happifys  him,  arid  makes  him  easier  to 
quell,  and  pardners  must  be  quelled  at  times,  else 
there  would  be  no  livin'  with  'em.  This  is  known 
to  all  wimmen  companions;  and  men,  too.  Great  is 
the  mystery  of  pardners. 


Chimmie  Meets 

the  Duchess 
By 
E.  W.  Townsend 


CHIMMIE    MEETS   THE 
DUCHESS 

BY  E.   W.  TOWNSEND 

"OAY,  me  name  's  Dennis,  an'  not  Chimmie  Fad- 
**•*  den,  if  dem  folks  up  dere  ain't  got  boodle  ter 
burn  a  wet  dog  wid.  Sure,  boodle  ter  burn  a  wet 
dog  wid.  I  'm  tellin'  yer,  and  dat  's  right.  See? 

"Say,  dey  makes  it  dere  own  selves.  Naw,  I 
ain't  stringin'  yer.  It  's  right.  How  ?  Listen  : 
Miss  Fannie  she  sent  fer  me,  an'  she  was  writin', 
she  was,  in  a  little  book,  an'  when  she  writ  a  page 
she  teared  it  out  an'  pinned  it  on  a  bill. 

"'Here,  Chames,'  she  saus  ter  me,  she  says, 
'here,  Chames,  take  dese  bills  and  pay  dem,'  she 
says. 

"'Wot  t'ell  will  I  pay  dem  wid,  Miss  Fannie?' 
I  says;  like  dat,  '  Wot  t'ell  will  I  pay  dem  wid?' 
I  says.  See? 

"  Say,  wot  der  ye  tink  she  says?  She  says,  says 
she,  *  Pay  dem  wid  de  checks,  Chames,'  she  says. 
107 


io8   AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Chimmie  Meets  the  Duchess 

See?  '  Dere  's  a  check  pinned  on  every  bill,'  she 
says. 

"Say,  I  taut  she  was  stringin'  me;  but  I  tinks  ter 
meself,  if  she  wants  ter  string  me,  it  goes.  See? 
Wot  Miss  Fannie  does  goes,  wedder  it  makes  me 
look  like  a  farmer  or  not.  Dat  's  right. 

"  Well,  I  taut  I'd  get  a  roast  when  I  'd  try  ter 
pass  off  dose  tings  she  writ  out  fer  boodle.  See? 
Wot  do  yer  tink?  Why,  every  one  'er  dose  mugs  — 
dere  was  a  candy  store,  an'  dere  was  a  flower  store, 
an'  dere  was  a  store  where  dey  sells  womin's  hats, 
an',  holy  gee!  dere  was  all  kind  er  stores  —  all  dose 
mugs,  I  'm  tellin  ye,  dey  just  takes  off  der  hats 
when  I  shoved  de  boodle  Miss  Fannie  made  at 'em. 
Dat 's  right.  Dat  boodle  was  as  good  as  nickels. 
Sure. 

"Well,  I  was  clean  paralyzed,  an'  when  I  gits 
home  an'  was  goin'  ter  Miss  Fannie  wid  de  bills,  I 
meets  a  mug  in  de  hall  dey  calls  de  walley.  Say,  all 
dat  mug  does  fer  'is  wages  is  ter  take  care  of  'is 
Whisker's  whiskers.  Sure.  'E  is  'is  Whisker's 
walley.  When  'is  Whiskers  wants  a  clean  shirt  dat 
walley  gets  it  fer  'im,  and  tings  like  dat. 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    109 
By  E.  W.  Townsend 

"I  would  n't  mind  dat  snap  meself,  only  'is 
Whiskers  is  a  reg'lar  scrappe/,  an'  can  do  me. 

"  Well,  I  was  tellin'  yer  'bout  meetin'  de  walley 
in  de  hall.  1  told  'im  dat  Miss  Fannie  could  make 
boodle  cutter  paper,  just  like  de  President  er  der 
United  States. 

"Say,  wot  do  yer  tink  dat  mug  done?  'E  gives 
me  de  laugh.  See?  Gives  me  de  laugh,  an'  says 
I  'm  a  ig'rant  wagabone. 

"  ' Wot  t'ell!'  I  says  ter  Mm.  '  I  may  be  a  wag- 
abone,' I  says,  'but  I  'm  not  ig'rant,'  I  says,  like 
dat.  'Wot  t'ell.'  See? 

"  'Miss  Fannie  can't  make  boodle,'  says  'e,  'no 
more  nor  I  kin,'  'e  says.  'Dem  's  checks,'  'e  says. 

f<  Say,  I  was  kind  er  layin'  fer  dat  dude,  anyhow, 
'cause  'e  is  allus  roastin'  me.  So  when  'e  says  dat, 
I  gives  'im  a.  jolt  in  de  jaw.  See?  Say,  'e  squared 
'isself  in  pretty  good  shape,  an'  I  taut  I  had  a  good 
scrap  on  me  hands,  when  in  comes  Miss  Fannie' s 
maid. 

"  Say,  she  's  a  doisy.  Yer  otter  see  'er.  I  'm 
dead  stuck  on  'er.  She  's  French,  an'  talks  a  forn 
langwudge  mostly. 


no   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Chimmie  Meets  the  Duchess 

"  When  she  showed  up  in  de  hall  I  drops  me 
hands,  an'  de  odder  mog  'e  drops  'is  hands,  an'  I 
gives  'er  a  wink  an'  says  : 

"'Ah,  dere,  Duchess!'  like  dat.  See?  'Ah, 
dere,  Duchess!' 

"  Den  I  chases  meself  over  ter  'er  and  trows  me 
arms  'round  'er  an*  gives  'er  a  kiss. 

"Say,  yer  otter  seed  dat  walley!  I  taut  I  'd  die! 
Holy  gee,  'e  was  crazy!  'E  flies  outter  de  hall,  but 
I  did  n't  know  den  wot  'is  game  was.  I  soon  tum- 
bled, dough. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  tellin'  ye,  I  gives  de  Duchess  a 
kiss,  an*  she  says  '  Vat  on,'  like  dat.  Dat 's  'er  forn 
langwudge.  'Vat  on.'  See? 

" 'Hoe  de  yer  say  it  is?    'Va-t-en?'    Is  it 'get  out?' 

"  Holy  gee!     Is  dat  so? 

"Well,  seein'  as  how  I  was  n't  on  to  'er  lan- 
gwudge, den,  I  gives  'er  anodder  kiss. 

"Dat  's  right,  ain't  it?  When  a  felley  meets  a 
Duchess  he  's  stuck  on,  it  's  right  to  give  'er  a  kiss, 
ain't  it?  Sure. 

"Well,  she  runs  a  big  bluff  of  pretendin'  not  ter 
like  it,  an'  says  'lace  moy  '  and  'finny  say.' 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    in 
By  E.  W.  Townsend 

"  How  de  yer  say  it  is?  '  Finissez?'  Naw,  dat 
, ain't  right.  '  Finney  say,'  she  says,  says  she,  but 
'er  langwudge  bein'  forn  I  was  n't  dead  on  all  de  time, 
an'  si  I  says  nothin'  but  just  kept  busy,  I  kept. 

"Say,  I  was  pretty  busy  when  in  tru  de  door 
comes  Miss  Fannie  an'  dat  mug,  de  walley,  an' 
catched  me.  Dat  's  wot  dat  mug  went  out  fer,  ter 
give  me  snap  away  ter  Miss  Fannie. 

"  Say,  but  Miss  Fannie  was  red!  An'  pretty! 
She  was  just  pretty  up  ter  de  limit,  I  'm  tellin'  ye. 
Up  ter  de  limit.  See? 

"She  gives  me  a  look,  an'  I  was  parylized.     See? 

"But,  holy  gee!  Ye  otter  seed  de  Duchess.  She 
was  as  cool  an'  smooth  as  ever  ye  seed  anybody  in 
yer  life.  I  taut  she  'd  be  parylized,  but  —  say, 
womin  is  queer  folks,  anyhow,  an'  ye  never  know 
wat  t'ell  dey  '11  do  'till  dey  do  it.  Sure. 

"Miss  Fannie  she  began  talkin'  dat  forn  lan- 
gwudge ter  de  Duchess,  but  de  Duchess  she  humped 
'er  shoulders  an'  she  humped  'er  eyebrows  an' 
looked  as  surprised  as  if  she  *d  put  on  'er  shoe  wid  a 
mouse  in  it. 

"  Den    de    Duchess    she   says,   says   she,   talkin' 


ii2    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Chimmie  Meets  the  Duchess 

English,  but  kinder  Dago  like  —  de  kind  er  Dago  dat 
French  folks  talk  when  dey  talks  English.  See?  She 
says,  says  she : 

"'Meester  Cheemes  'e  don't  do  nottin',  she  says, 
like  dat.  See? 

"  Say,  was  n't  dat  great?  Are  ye  on?  See?  Why, 
youse  must  be  a  farmer.  I  was  dead  on  ter  onct. 
Say,  de  Duchess  talked  English  to  tip  me.  See?  She 
did  n't  want  me  ter  give  de  game  away,, 

"Miss  Fannie  she  was  dead  on,  too,  fer  she  got 
redder,  an'  looked  just  like  an  actress  on  top  er  de 
stage,  sure.  She  told  dc  Duchess  to  talk  dat  forn 
langwudge,  I  guess,  fer  dey  jawed  away  like  a  ambu- 
lance gong,  an'  I  was  near  crazy,  fer  I  taut  I  was 
gettin*  de  gran'  roast  an'  I  could  n't  understan'  dere 
talk.  See? 

"'Bout  de  time  I  taut  I  'd  drop  dead  fer  not 
knowin'  wot  t'ell  dey  was  sayin',  Miss  Fannie  she 
turns  ter  me  an'  says,  says  she: 

"'Chimmie,'  she  says,  '  wot  was  yer  doin'  of?' 
she  says. 

"'Nottin','  I  says;  'nottin'  'tall,  Miss  Fannie,' 
says  I,  'only  askin'  de  Duchess  where  t'ell  yer  was,' 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    113 
By  E.  W.  Townsend 

I  say,,  'so  I  could  give  yer  de  bills  wot  I  paid  wid  de 
boodle,'  I  says. 

"  Then  Miss  Fannie  she  taut  er  while,  an'  she 
says  suddent,  says  she  :  '  Wot  did  she  say  when  yer 
ast  'er  where  I  was?'  she  says. 

"Say,  dere  was  where  I  was  a  farmer,  a  dead 
farmer.  Stid  of  chippin*  in  wid  a  song  an'  dance 
'bout  somet'in'  or  nodder,  I  was  so  stuck  on  me 
langwudge  dat  I  said  dose  words  de  Duchess  spoke, 
wot  I  was  tellin'  ye  of,  "Vat  on,'  an'  'lace  moy,' 
an'  '  finney  say.' 

"Say,  wot  t'ell  do  dem  words  mean,  anyway? 

"HoJy  gee!  is  dat  so?  'Get  out,'  an'  'let  me 
be,'  an'  'stop.' 

"Say,  holy  gee,  I  was  a  farmer,  an'  dat  's 
right. 

"  Well,  when  I  saud  dem  four  words,  Miss 
Fannie  she  bit  her  lips,  an'  twisted  her  mouth  like 
she  'd  die  if  she  did  n't  laugh.  But  de  Duchess,  she 
gives  me  one  look  like  she  'd  like  to  do  me,  an' 
chases  'erself  outter  de  hall.  An'  me  stuck  on  'er, 
too! 

"Say,   womin  is  queer  folks,   anyhow;  an'  when 


ii4    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Chimmie  Meets  the  Duchess 

yer  stuck  on  yerself  de  most  dat  's  when  dey  trows 
yer  down  der  hardest.     See? 

"Say,  Tallin'  in  love  has  taut  dis  mug  one  ting, 
dead.  I  don't  go  monkeyin'  wid  no  forn  langwudge 
no  more.  Sure,  straight  English  is  'bout  me  size. 
See?" 


Chimmie  Enters 
Polite  Society 
By 
E.  W.  Townsend 


CHIMMIE    ENTERS   POLITE 
SOCIETY 

BY   E.  W.  TOWNSEND 

AY,  if  I  didn't  come  near  gittin'  de  gran' 
bounce,  de  straight  trun  out,  me  name's  not 
Chimmie  Fadden.  Dat's  right.  Sure,  en  say,  'is 
Whiskers  was  crazy! 

"Listen.  De  old  mug  calls  me  'a  unregenerate 
heathen!'  Did  ye  ever  hear  such  langwudge?  I'm 
gettin'  on  to  dem  big  words,  sure.  'Un-re-gen- 
er-ate.'  Say,  dat's  not  bad  fer  a  mug  like  me. 
How'd  it  happen?  Easy.  Trouble  allus  comes 
dead  easy  ter  me.  See?  I  'd  a  been  trun  out 
bod'ly  'cept  fer  der  loidy,  Miss  Fannie.  Yes,  we 
calls  'er  Miss  Fannie.  All  de  hands  calls  'er  Miss 
Fannie,  sure. 

"It  was  dis  way.      Dey  gives  a  party  up  dere 

de  odder  night.    Say,  dey's  allus  given  parties  dere. 

See?    Well,   de   mug   dey  calls  de  butler  —  de  one 

I  had  de  scrap  wid  —  'e  says  ter  me,  says  'e,  'e  says, 

117 


n8    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Chimmie  Enters  Polite  Society 

'Chames,'  says  'e,  'Chames,  you'll  help  de  kitchen 
servants  to-night,'  'e  says. 

"  'T'  'ell  I  will,'  says  I.  See?  I  says,  'T'  'ell  I 
will.' 

"But  Miss  Fannie,  she  makes  a  sneak  to  ter  barn, 
where  I  was  teachin'  de  coachman's  kid  how  ter  pat 
fer  a  jig,  an'  she  says,  says  she. 

"  'Chimmie,'  she  says,  'Chimmie,  you  '11  do  what 
de  butler  tells  ye,  or  I'll  break  yer  face,'  she  says, 
Miss  Fannie  does.  See? 

"Naw,  not  dem  words,  but  dat's  wot  dey  means. 
Say,  a  felley  can't  allus  be  'memberin'  just  de  words 
dose  folks  use.  But  dat  's  wot  dey  means. 

"'Dat  goes,  Miss  Fannie,'  I  says.  'Dat  goes,' 
says  I,  fer  what  she  says  goes  if  I  have  ter  lick  de  big- 
gest mug  on  eart'  to  make  it  go.  See? 

"Well,  as  I  was  tellin'  ye,  dey  gives  de  party,  an' 
I  helps  in  de  kitchen.  Say,  it  'ud  killed  ye  dead  ter 
seed  me.  Apron?  Sure!  an  apron  wid  strings  on  it, 
an' it  comes  down  ter  me  feet.  Dat 's  right.  I  knowed 
't  would  kill  ye. 

"Well,  as  I  was  tellin'  ye,  I  helps  in  de  kitchen 
wid  de  heavy  stuff,  an'  I  never  tuk  so  much  jawin'  in 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    119 
By  E.  W.  Townsend 

me  life.  Say,  I  'd  a  slugged  de  whole  gang  of  dose 
farmers  if  it  hadn't  been  fer  makin'  a  racket  wot  ud 
queered  Miss  Fannie;  she  bein'  me  backer,  kinder. 
Well,  bime-by  all  de  mugs  begins  feedin'  in  a  big 
room  where  dey  's  a  little  room  offen  it  dey  calls 
de  pantry.  I  sneaks  in  dere  once  ter  look  at  de  mugs, 
like  all  de  kitchen  hands  was  sneakin'  in,  an'  dere  was 
a  lot  of  bots  in  de  pantry,  an'  I  just  naturl'y  swipes 
one  under  me  dinkey  apron.  See?  Dat  's  right, 
ain't  it? 

"When  I  gets  a  chanst  I  trun  it  out'n  de  windy, 
aimin'  fer  de  grass;  but,  holy  gee!  it  hits  some  mug 
plunk  on  'is  nut.  Say,  I  was  near  crazy.  I  snook 
out  dere,  and  dere  was  de  coachman's  kid  chokin' 
'isself  tryin'  not  to  howl,  wid  'is  'ead  in  'is  paws, 
where  de  bot  had  hit  Mm  right  over  'is  ear.  Dat 's 
right.  Sure. 

"'Oh,  it's  youse,  Chimmie  Fadden,'  'e  says, 
says  'e.  'It's  youse,  an'  yer  stealin'  champagne,' 
'e  says,  holdin'  up  de  bot  I  'd  swiped. 

"'I'm  stealin'  nottin',  yer  jay,'  I  says,  an'  I  gives 
'im  a  jolt  in  de  jaw,  see?  I  knowed  'e  could  n't  howl, 
an'  I  was  dyin'  fer  a  scrap,  but  dere  was  no  fight  in 


120   AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Chimmie  Enters  Polite  Society 

'im,  see?  'E  only  says,  says  'e,  '  g've  me  half  de  hot,' 
'e  says,  'an'  I'll  not  tell  on  ye.' 

"  'Dat  goes,'  I  says,  and  we  sneaked  der  hot  ter 
de  barn,  where  'e  opens  it.  Say,  did  ye  ever  drink 
dat  stuff,  champagne?  Holy  gee,  it's  rank!  It 's  like 
beer  wid  sugar  an'  winigar  inter  it.  Sure.  Dat's 
right;  I  only  took  one  glass,  an'  dat's  all  de  cham- 
pagne Chimmie  Fadden  wants.  I've  hcerd  'em  jaw 
'bout  Bowery  whiskey,  but  it's  milk  'longside  dat 
stuff.  Say,  it's  no  good. 

"Well,  I  sneaked  back  ter  der  kitchen  an'  left  der 
kid  wid  de  bot.  See?  Say,  if  de  kid  didn't  collar 
de  whole  bot,  I'm  a  chump.  Sure.  DC  whole  bot, 
I  'm  tellin'  ye.  Dat 's  right. 

"Well,  after  de  party  de  coachman  finds  'is  kid 
paralyzed  on  de  barn  floor.  Paralyzed,  see?  All  de  old 
mug  could  get  out'n  de  young  mug  was  a  song  an' 
dance  'bout  me.  Say,  everyt'ing  dat  goes  wrong  'bout 
dat  barn,  it 's  all  put  on  me.  Sure. 

"Well,  de  coachman  grabs  me  an'  takes  me  to  'is 
Whiskers,  who  was  talkin'  to  Miss  Fannie  'bout  de 
party,  an'  'e  says,  says  'e: 

"  'Dis  villian  has  murdered  me  son,'  'e  says. 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    121 
By  E.  W.  Townsend 

"Say,  you'd  a  died  if  you'd  seen  de  picnic. 
'Is  Whiskers  was  all  broke  up,  an'  talks  crazy  'bout 
murder  comin'  ter  'is  house  tru  'is  daughter  tryin'  ter 
reform  der  slums. 

"  'Murder  nothin,'  I  says.  'Wot  t'  'e!l,'  I  says, 
like  dat.  I  says, 'Wot  t'  'ell.  De  kid's  nut  is  cracked, 
an'  Vs  punished  debot,' I  says.  'Wot  t'  'ell!  'E'll 
be  all  right  in  de  mornin'.' 

"Say,  'is  Whiskers  couldn't  understan'  me,  so  de 
whole  gang  of  us,  'is  Whiskers,  Miss  Fannie,  ccachy, 
an'  me,  goes  ter  de  barn.  Well,  you  'd  died  if  you  'd 
seen  de  kid.  He  'd  kinder  taken  a  brace,  an'  was 
tryin'  ter  do  a  dance  I  'd  teached  'im.  He  had  de  bot 
in  'is  arms,  an'  was  singin'  a  dinky  song  'bout  razzle- 
dazzle.  'Is  face  was  all  blood  from  where  'is  nut  was 
cracked  by  de  bot;  an'  holy  gee,  'e  was  a  bute! 

"Say,  I  could  see  'is  Whiskers  wanted  ter  laugh, 
an'  Miss  Fannie  wanted  ter  cry,  an'  coachy  was  struck 
dead  dumb;  so,  nobody  sayin'  nottin',  I  just  taut  I  'd 
be  social  like,  an'  so  I  just  chipped  in  wid,  '  Oh,  wot 
a  diffrunce  in  de  mornin' ! '  Den  'is  Whiskers  says, 
says  'e:  'Chimmie  Fadden,'  'e  says,  '  yuse  is  a  unre- 
generate  heathen,  an'  you'll  have  to  go.' 


122  AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Chimmie  Enters  Polite  Society 

"Say,  wot  de  ye  tink  Miss  Fannie  done?  She  says, 
'No,  fadder,'  says  she;  'no,  I  tink  Chimmie  is  not 
de  only  sinner  here.  Give  'im  anodder  chanst,'  she 
says,  an'  she  pulled  de  old  mug's  whiskers,  like  de  loidy 
in  de  play.  Dat  's  right.  Dat  's  wot  she  done.  Ain't 
she  a  torrowbred? 

"Well,  'is  Whiskers  says  somet'ing  'bout  its  bein' 
better  for  'im  to  bring  de  slums  ter  Miss  Fannie  radder 
den  Miss  Fannie  goin'  ter  der  slums.  Den  'e  tells  'er 
to  go  in  de  house,  an'  says  'e  '11  tend  ter  me.  Say, 
mebby  yer  tink  'e  didn't.  Well,  'e  took  me  in  de 
harness-room  an'  'e  just  everlastin'  lambasted  de  hide 
ofPn  me.  Sure.  Say,  'is  Whiskers  is  a  reg'lar  scrap- 
per. See?  Say,  'e  t'umped  me  good,  an'  dat  's  right. 
'E  says,  says  'e: 

"  'Miss  Fannie  '11  look  after  yer  soul  an'  I  '11  look 
after  yer  hide,'  'e  says. 

"Say,  I  'm  kinder  gettin*'  stuck  on  'is  Whiskers. 

"Well,  so  long.  I 've  got  ter  get  busy.  I 'm  takin' 
a  note  from  Miss  Fannie  ter  'er  fadder.  I  'm  stuck 
on  dat  job.  When  I  goes  ter  'is  office  'e  gives  me 
twenty-five  cents  ter  ride  home.  I  walks,  an'  I  wins 
de  boodle.  See?" 


The  Genial  Idiot 

By 

John  Kendrick  Bangs 


THE  GENIAL   IDIOT 

BY  JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS 

CONCERNING    THE    FOUR    HUNDRED 

OD  MORNING,  Mr.  Idiot,"  said  the 
Landlady,  cheerfully,  for  every  one  had  paid 
his  bill  the  night  before,  and  all  the  world  looked  rosy 
to  her.  "I  hope  I  find  you  well  this  bright,  sunny 
morning." 

"Passably  so,  Madame,"  returned  the  Idiot. 
"A  trifle  depressed,  but  otherwise  ship-shape.  I 
have  no  appetite,  but — well,  Mary,  you  may  bring 
me  a  little  of  everything,  as  usual,  nevertheless. 
I  do  not  believe  in  permitting  the  whim  of  an 
appetite  to  keep  one  from  getting  all  that  he  is 
entitled  to." 

"What  is  the  cause  of  your  depression?"  asked 
the  Doctor. 

"  Never  you  mind/'  said  the  Idiot,  calmly.     "If 
I  told  you,  you  'd  probably  tell  me  how  to  get  rid 
of  it,  and  then  I  'd  owe  you  money." 
125 


iz6   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

The  Genial  Idiot 

"I'll  put  you  on  the  free  list  this  morning," 
laughed  the  Doctor. 

"And  promise  not  even  to  give  me  advice?  I 
might  take  it  and  have  a  relapse,  you  know,"  said 
the  Idiot. 

"I  promise,  on  my  honor,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"I  guess  it's  too  much  late  supper,"  put  in  the 
Bibliomaniac. 

"Mince  pie  and  lobster,  most  likely,"  suggested 
Mr.  Brief. 

"You  gentlemen  might  get  up  a  pool  on  the 
question,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  Five  dollars  to  get  in, 
and  the  one  who  guesses  right  takes  the  pot.  If  none 
of  you  guess  right,  I  take  it,  eh? " 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Brief,  "I  have  n't  any 
use  for  these  get-rich-quick  schemes,  and  what  is 
more,  I  don  't  care  a  rap  what  is  the  matter  with 
you.  You  can  have  a  permanent  case  of  the  Nega- 
losaurian  measles  complicated  with  Faradiddle  of  the 
Polyglot  for  all  I  care." 

"That  being  the  case,"  observed  the  Idiot,  "and 
in  response  to  your  kind  inquiry,  I  will  tell  you  why 
the  fabric  of  my  disposition  is  dyed  blue.  I  see  by 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     127 
By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

the  papers  that  Newport  is  about  to  be  abandoned  by 
the  400  as  a  place  of  residence." 

"Pah!"  ejaculated  the  Bibliomaniac.  "Why  vex 
your  soul  with  that  ?  What  difference  does  it  make 
to  you  or  anybody  else  where  the  400  spend  the 
summer?" 

"  Hear  him  !"  cried  the  Id:ot.  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  such  disloyalty  !  There  's  lese-majeste  for  you. 
Here  's  a  man  dares  say  openly  that  he  does  n't  care 
where  the  400  spend  the  summer.  It  's  a  good  thing 
for  you,  Mr.  Bib,  that  you  don't  live  in  Germany, 
else  you  'd  be  jugged  before  night  for  uttering  a  senti- 
ment so  essentially  seditious." 

"Well,  I  don't!"  persisted  the  Bibliomaniac. 
"I  don't  approve  of  the  400." 

"  Sh  !  Do  hush — somebody  might  hear  you,  and 
then  where  would  you  be?"  cried  the  Idiot,  in 
a  tragic  whisper.  "  Suppose  Mary,  for  instance, 
should  overhear  what  you  say,  and  tell  the  cook,  and 
the  cook  should  communicate  it  to  the  kitchen-maid 
of  the  Van  Rensellaer  Squares,  through  whom  it 
would  reach  the  ears  of  the  Square's  butler,  who 
would  tell  Stuyvesant  Square's  valet,  who  would  be 


iz8    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

The  Genial  Idiot 

in  duty  bound  to  tell  Stuy  vy  himself,  that  Mr.  Biblio- 
maniac does  not  approve  of  the  400,  and  thus — why 
we  'd  have  the  police  down  upon  us  in  one  hour." 

"I  still  do  not  approve  of  them,"  retorted  the 
Bibliomaniac.  "  They  constitute  the  most  useless 
society  the  world  has  ever  known.  They  have  no 
raison  df  etre.  They  have  no  cultivation.  Their  in- 
fluence on  art  and  letters  is  absolutely  nil.  They  are 
zeros  in  science  and  in  education.  Even  in  the  days 
of  the  Roman  Empire,  or  in  France  prior  to  the 
Revolution,  society  had  some  influence  upon  life,  but 
these  people — oh,  well,  what's  the  use?  There's 
no  achievement  in  'em,  and  they  can  spend  the  sum- 
mer in  Hades  for  all  I  care  about  it." 

"There  's  plenty  of  summer  to  be  spent  in  Hades," 
agreed  the  Idiot;  "that  is,  there  is  if  the  reports  we 
get  of  the  prevailing  temperature  there  are  correct, 
and  when  you've  spent  all  you  have  there's  a  lot 
more  ready  made,  within  reach  of  the  humblest  citi- 
zen. They  have  summer  to  burn  in  Hades,  but  as 
for  me,  I  shall  be  sorry  when  the  400  abandon  New- 
port for  the  slightly  shadier  resort.  It  is  all  nonsense 
to  say  there  's  no  achievement  in  'em.  It  is  not  the 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    129 
By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

fact  that  our  modern  society  is  useless.  They  have  a 
distinct  influence  upon  life,  and  while  I  can't  speak 
as  to  the  relative  merits  of  the  400  and  society  during 
the  French  Revolution  or  the  Roman  Empire  —  I 
wasn't  in  the  swim  at  either  period — the  400  are 
good  enough  for  me,  educationally,  in  art,  in  letters, 
science,  or  any  other  way,  and  when  they  begin  to 
show  signs  of  dissolution — " 

"Why  didn't  you  say  decadence,  and  be  done 
with  it?"  demanded  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"Because  I  don't  mean  decadence,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  I  mean  dissolution.  When  they  begin  to 
show  signs  of  breaking  up,  I  feel  very  unhappy  about 
it.  Up  to  this  time  we  have  known  where  to  look 
for  them  in  their  efflorescence.  That  place  was 
Newport.  It  was  as  if  you  owned  a  fine  herd  of 
cattle,  and  knew  just  where  to  put  your  hands  on  'em 
when  you  wanted  to.  Now,  if  these  rumors  are 
correct,  the  aggregation  is  to  move  on,  to  turn  up 
elsewhere  no  doubt,  but  no  longer  as  an  aggregation. 
For  all  we  know  some  of  'em  may  turn  up  in  Jersey 
City,  others  at  Schoharie,  others  at  Attleboro — any 
old  place,  but  hopelessly  scattered,  and  I  fear  that 


i3o    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Genial  Idiot 

once  scattered  they  will  lose  that  cohesive  power  of 
public  entertainment  that  has  hitherto  made  them  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever.  The  things  they 
do  and  the  things  they  say,  done  sporadically,  will 
cease  to  be  diverting,  whereas  achieved  by  the  mass 
they  were  most  impressive.  Moreover,  I  doubt  if  a 
widely  diffused  society  could  produce  such  a  social 
Napoleon  as  Mr.  Tommy  Wristlets,  the  inventor  of 
the  Monkey  dinner.  One,  two,  or  three  heads  put 
together  could  never  have  conceived  such  a  one  as 
he.  It  required  four  hundred  to  produce  the  man 
we  have — and  by  the  way,  if  Tommy  Wristlets  is 
not  an  achievement,  Mr.  Bib,  I  'd  like  to  know  what 
is.  Rome,  with  all  her  glory,  never  dreamed  of 
Tommy  Wristlets ;  Greece,  in  her  palmiest  hour,  had 
nothing  like  him.  You  can  search  from  one  end  of 
the  Parthenon  frieze  to  the  other,  whereon  is  depicted 
the  perfect  flavor  of  Grecian  society,  and  no  Tommy 
Wristlets  raises  his  head  from  the  line  to  defy  his 
modern  prototype.  Tommy  is  a  creation  of  our  own 
time,  with  his  bangles,  and  his  monkeys,  and  his 
mordant  wit — and  yet  you  say  the  400  have  achieved 
nothing." 


AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR     131 
By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  consider  him  an  achieve- 
ment— "  began  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"He  is  more,"  cried  the  Idiot.  "  He  is  a  veri- 
table triumph.  Philosophers  in  all  ages  have  claimed 
that  there  was  nothing  new  under  the  sun ;  it  has 
been  proclaimed  from  the  housetops  and  from  the 
cellars,  and  yet  in  face  of  the  dictum  of  the  sum  total 
of  human  experience,  the  400  get  their  heads  together, 
and  lo,  as  Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jupiter,  there 
steps  forth  Tommy  Wristlets,  tne  like  of  whom  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  the  Ark,  the  Sun,  Moon,  and 
Stars  alike  contained  none.  So  much  for  the  achieve- 
ment of  the  400.  With  this  one  exhibit  constantly 
before  our  eyes  in  the  Sunday  newspapers  you  can- 
not longer  put  the  400  down  among  the  non-pro- 
ducers." 

"Let 's  grant  your  proposition — I  '11  admit  they  've 
produced  Tommy  Wristlets,  and  let  'em  have  all 
the  glory  that  is  coming  to  them  on  that  account. 
I  '11  grant,  that  by  buying  pictures  they  have  an 
influence  upon  art,  also,"  continued  the  Bibliomaniac. 
"  Their  cottages  and  town -houses  are  doubtless  lined 
with  oil-paintings  in  layers,  though  as  for  producing 


i32   AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Genial  Idiot 

painters,  I  've  yet  to  hear  of  a  member  of  the  400 
who  was  a  successful  painter." 

"Guess  you  don't  read  the  papers,"  said  the 
Idiot.  "  Some  of  the  greatest  painters  of  the  age 
are  in  the  400.  There  *s  Reggie  Goldrox,  and  Jack 
Stocksandbonds,  and  Billie  Murrayhill,  and  Eddie 
Boodleton,  and  Harry  Motorcar,  and  — 

"In  heaven's  name,"  cried  the  Bibliomaniac, 
"what  do  those  frivolous  young  men  paint?" 

"Towns,"  said  the  Idiot,  solemnly.  "  Has 
Meissonnier  painted  detached  portions  of  Paris  ? 
Reggie  Goldrox  has  painted  every  square  foot  of  it. 
Has  Millais  or  Burne-Jones  painted  portions  of  Lon- 
don ?  Show  me  an  inch  of  that  precious  hamlet  that 
has  escaped  the  brush  of  Jack  Stocksandbonds.  So 
have  they  all  painted  New  York,  Boston,  Washing- 
ton, and  Pittsburg,  and  there  has  been  no  stint  in 
color,  either.  They  have  laid  it  on  thick,  and  at  the 
present  day  constitute  a  school  of  their  own." 

"They're  not  much  in  water-colors,"  sneered 
the  Bibliomaniac. 

"No,  but  their  drawing  is  beyond  cavil,"  said 
the  Idiot. 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    133 

By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

"You  have  me  there,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac, 
shaking  his  head  perplexedly.  "  What  do  they 
draw,  checks  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  the  Idiot,  "corks." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  argue  with  equal  force  as  to 
the  influence  of  the  400  on  education,"  put  in  Mr. 
Brief,  since  the  Bibliomaniac  had  taken  refuge  from 
the  fray  in  coffee  and  silence. 

"Certainly,  educationally  they  are  a  power," 
replied  the  Idiot.  "It  is  a  liberal  education  in 
manners  just  to  watch  'em.  Just  because  you  know 
Latin  and  Greek  and  mathematics,  and  can  box  the 
compass,  doesn't  make  of  you  the  only  educated 
person  in  the  world.  You  might  pass  a  perfect  ex- 
amination in  Ancient  History  and  flunk  like  an  igno- 
ramus on  Don't.  I  '11  wager  you  now  you  don't 
know  whether  you  should  wear  a  mauve  silk  four-in- 
hand  or  a  yellow  sailor's  knot  at  a  five  o'clock  tea.  If 
you  were  invited  to  attend  a  morning  musicale  at 
Mrs.  Von  Boodle's  to-morrow  you  would  n't  know 
whether  to  wear  a  pink  shirt  and  a  blue  tie  with  a 
frock  coat,  or  to  go  more  simply  clad  in  a  green  cuta- 
way, lavendar  trousers,  and  tan-colored  shoes;  and  as 


The  Genial  Idiot 


for  shaking  hands,  I  '11  bet  you  can't  tell  me  off-hand 
how  it 's  done  in  polite  society  to-day,  yet  one  of  the 
slightest  of  these  Willieboys,  that  you  profess  to  despise 
so  deeply,  does  all  these  things  correctly,  and  what  is 
more,  by  instinct." 

"I  would  n't  dress  the  way  they  do  for  a  farm," 
said  the  Bibliomaniac. 

"They  would  n't  either,"  said  the  Idiot.  "For 
a  farm  they  'd  dress  in  a  farm  costume,  for  it  is  a  part 
of  their  sartorial  creed  to  be  always  correctly  dressed. 
But  you  see,  Mr.  Brief,  while  you  undoubtedly  know 
a  great  many  things  that  the  400  don't  know,  they, 
on  the  other  hand,  know  a  great  many  things  that  you 
don't;  and  what  is  more,  their  little  minds  are  con- 
stantly as  busy  as  bees  getting  up  new  things  which 
shall  be  de  rigueur.  They  are  constantly  adding  to 
the  sum  of  human  knowledge  along  lines  of  etiquette. 
Are  you  doing  as  much  in  your  profession  ?  " 

Mr.  Brief  had  to  confess  that  he  was  n't,  when  the 
Poet  joined  in. 

"They  don't  do  much  for  letters,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Idiot.  "They 
let  a  few  favored  authors  into  their  circle,  and  you 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR     135 

By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  Horse  Show  is  never 
considered  a  success  without  Thomas  Partington  Snif- 
fen,  the  author  of  f  Impressions  of  the  Erie  Canal'  and 
'Lost  in  Gowanus  Bay,'  in  one  of  the  boxes.  Two 
years  ago,  when  Sniffen  was  in  South  Africa  as  a  war 
correspondent,  they  even  talked  of  postponing  it  until 
he  returned." 

"That  may  be,"  said  the  Poet;  "but  they 
don't  inspire  anything  in  literature,  do  they?" 

"  That 's  not  their  fault,"  said  the  Idiot.  "  It 's 
the  fault  of  the  literary  fellows.  If  a  time  was  ever 
ripe  for  a  Thackeray,  and  a  subject  ready  to  the  pen 
of  such  a  man,  this  is  the  time  and  the  400  the 
subject." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  enough  to  drive  you 
into  literature,"  sneered  the  Bibliomaniac.  "Why 
don't  you  try  to  write  them  up  yourself?" 

"  Gratitude  withholds  my  hand,"  said  the  Idiot. 

"Gratitude?"  cried  Mr.  Brief.  "Gratitude  for 
what?" 

"  Many  a  good  hearty  laugh,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"  If  you  look  at  'em  the  right  way,  and  have  any 
sense  of  humor,  you  '11  see  that  there  's  nothing  fun- 


136   AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR 
The  Genial  Idiot 

nier  in  the  world  than  that  same  400;  and  as  for  me, 
I  'd  no  sooner  satirize  them  than  as  a  boy  I  would 
have  shot  the  clown  in  the  circus  with  my  bean- 
shooter." 

"You  are  easily  amused,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"lam,"  observed  the  Idiot.  "That's  why  I 
always  come  up  smiling." 

"  Wonder  to  me  you  don't  join  the  400,  you're 
so  fond  of  'em,"  said  the  Bibliomaniac  with  an  acid 
smile.  "Intellectually  you  are  about  on  a  level." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  Idiot.  "But 
there  's  one  or  two  things  that  prevent  me." 

"And  what  are  they,  pray?"  demanded  Mr.  Brief. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place  it  costs  seven  or  eight 
dollars  a  week  to  keep  up  one's  end  in  that  set,  and  I 
have  n't  more  than  three;  and  the  second  is,  that  my 
mind  is  not  strong  enough  to  grasp  the  refinements  of 
pink  shirts,  blue  ties,  and  frock  coats." 

"You  speak  as  if  there  was  a  vacancy  in  the  400 
just  waiting  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Brief. 

"Oh,  there  are  vacancies  enough;  I've  got  a 
record  of  'em,"  began  the  Idiot. 

"How  many?"  asked  the  Bibliomaniac. 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    137 

By  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

"  Three  hundred  and  ninety-nine,"  said  the  Idiot. 
"In  fact,  they  are  all  vacancies  but  one." 
"Which  one  is  that?"  asked  the  Poet. 
"Bobbie  Van  Highball;  he's  full  all  the  time," 
said  the  Idiot,  and  there  the  discussion  closed. 


"Checker's"  Letter 

By 

Henry  M.  Blossom,  Jr. 


"CHECKER'S"    LETTER 
BY  HENRY  M.  BLOSSOM,  JR. 

"  DEAR  MR.  PRESTON: 

"I'm  here  doing  a  stage-coach  business  —  strain- 
ing the  leaders  of  my  legs,  hustlin'.  If  trade  keeps 
up  I  '11  have  coin  to  melt  when  I  get  home,  and  you 
bet  I  '11  melt  it.  The  food  out  here  would  poison  a 
dog.  I  ain't  got  the  health  to  go  against  it.  I 've  been 
sick  ever  since  I  left  Chicago  anyhow,  on  account  of 
Murray  Jameson.  I  met  him  at  the  depot  the  night 
I  left.  He  had  a  box  of  cigars  he  said  a  friend  of  his 
brought  him  from  Mexico.  He  gave  me  a  handful. 
I  got  on  the  train,  and  got  busy  with  one  —  I  like  to 
croaked.  Strong!  !  !  Oh,  no  —  it  wasn't  strong! 
Drop  one  of  them  in  a  can  of  dynamite  and  it's  ten 
to  one  it  would  '  do  '  the  can.  Start  a  '  Mexican  ' 
and  a  piece  of  Limburger  in  a  short  dash,  it 's  a  hun- 
dred to  one  you'd  need  a  searchlight  to  find  the  Lim- 
burger. I  've  switched  to  cigarettes. 

"  I  got  in  here  at  six  to-night,  and  I  'm  going  to 
141 


i42    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
"Checker's"   Letter 

get  away  at  one.  After  supper  (Supper!  I  '11  tell  you 
about  that  later!)  I  went  over  to  the  only  shanty  in 
the  place  that  looked  like  a  store  and  opened  the 
door.  There  were  a  lot  of  '  Jaspers '  sitting  around 
the  stove,  chewing  tobacco  and  swapping  lies.  I 
asked  the  guy  that  got  up  when  I  came  in  where  he 
kept  his  stock  (he  had  nothing  in  sight).  He  lighted 
a  lantern,  walked  me  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  showed 
me  four  '  mooley  cows '  —  say,  I  was  sore.  But 
I  *m  square  with  him  —  I  gave  him  a  couple  of 
'Mexicans.' 

"That  supper!  Well,  say,  it  was  a  'peach.' 
(I  had  an  egg  this  morning  and  it  was  a  'bird.') 
I  sat  down  to  the  table  with  a  St.  Louis  shoe-man. 
We  turned  the  things  down  one  by  one  as  they  came 
in.  A  few  soda  crackers  on  the  table  saved  our 
lives.  We  tried  the  griddle-cakes.  They  were  pieces 
of  scorched,  greasy  dough,  as  big  as  pie-plates.  There 
were  a  couple  of  '  Rubes '  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table;  a  short,  little,  fat  one,  and  a  long,  lean,  thin 
one.  We  shoved  the  cakes  on  down  their  way. 
They  ate  their  own  and  ours,  and  ordered  more.  I 
bet  the  shoe-man  five  on  the  fat  one.  We  ordered 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    143 

By  Henry  M.  Blossom,  Jr. 

more  ourselves  and  pushed  them  along.  The  thin 
man  finally  began  to  weaken,  but  the  fat  one  got 
stronger  every  minute.  My  friend  said  I  was 
'pullin','  and  wanted  to  draw  the  bet;  but  I  made 
him  'give  up.' 

"Just  as  we  were  going,  the  waitress  came  up  with 
a  grouch  on,  stuck  out  her  chin,  and  says  '  Pie?' 

'"Is  it  compulsory? '  says  the  shoe-man. 

"'Naw;  it's  mince.' 

'"Well,    that    lets    us    out,'    he    says,    and    we 
skipped." 
Later  — 

"I  got  interrupted  here.  The  boys  wanted  me  to 
play  'high-five'  until  train-time;  I  picked  up  a  little 
'perfumery  money,'  and  came  up  here  to  Kansas 
City  to  spend  Saturday  night  and  Sunday. 

"There's  a  lot  of  'rummies'  I  used  to  know 
hanging  around  here  'broke.'  They've  all  'got 
their  hand  out.'  One  of  them  made  me  a  talk  last 
night  for  enough  to  get  to  St.  Louis  on  —  said  he 
'  must  get  there.' 

tt  t  Well,'  I  says,  '  try  the  trucks;  how  are  you  on 
swinging  under?' 


i44    AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR 

"Checker's"    Letter 

"'Yes,'  he  says,  'you're  in  luck,  and  makin'  a 
swell  front,  with  your  noisy  duds  and  plenty  of 
money,  but  it's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't  'let  your 
blood  gush '  a  little  when  you  see  an  old  friend  of 
yours  in  trouble.' 

"That  was  a  new  one  on  me,  and  I  'loosened.' 
Well,  perhaps  he'll  do  me  a  good  turn  some  time. 

"Now,  I  must  close.  I  see  dinner's  ready. 
There  's  a  big,  fat  guy  has  been  beating  me  out  in  a 
race  for  a  seat  I  want  in  the  dining-room.  '  I  '11  put 
it  over  him  a  neck'  to-day  for  the  chair.  The  cross- 
eyed fairy  that  waits  on  that  table  can  dig  up  cream 
while  the  rest  of  the  waitresses  are  looking  around  to 
see  if  there's  any  skimmed  milk  in  the  joint. 

"  Yours  till  death  —  and  as  long  after  as  they  need 
me  at  the  morgue. 

"  EDWARD  CAMPBELL." 


The  Fable  of  the  Two 
Mandolin  Players  and 
the  Willing  Performer 

By 

George  Ade 


THE  FABLE  OF  THE  TWO  MAN- 
DOLIN  PLAYERS  AND  THE 
WILLING  PERFORMER 

BY  GEORGE  ADE 

A  VERY  attractive  Debutante  knew  two  Young 
•**•  Men  who  called  on  her  every  Thursday  eve- 
ning, and  brought  their  Mandolins  along. 

They  were  Conventional  Young  Men  of  the  Kind 
that  you  see  wearing  Spring  Overcoats  in  the  Cloth- 
ing Advertisements.  One  was  named  Fred,  and  the 
other  was  Eustace. 

The  Mothers  of  the  Neighborhood  often  remarked, 
"What  Perfect  Manners  Fred  and  Eustace  have!" 
Merely  as  an  aside,  it  may  be  added  that  Fred  and 
Eustace  were  more  Popular  with  the  Mothers  than 
they  were  with  the  Younger  Set,  although  no  one 
could  say  a  Word  against  either  of  them.  Only  it 
was  rumored  in  Keen  Society  that  they  didn't 
Belong.  The  Fact  that  they  went  Calling  in  a 
Crowd,  and  took  their  Mandolins  along,  may  give 

M7 


14.8    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Fable  of  the  Two  Mandolin  Players 

the  Acute  Reader  some  Idea  of  the  Life  that  Fred  and 
Eustace  held  out  to  the  Young  Women  of  their 
Acquaintance. 

The  Debutante's  name  was  Myrtle.  Her  Parents 
were  very  Watchful,  and  did  not  encourage  her  to 
receive  Callers,  except  such  as  were  known  to  be 
Exemplary  Young  Men.  Fred  and  Eustace  were  a 
few  of  those  who  escaped  the  Black  List.  Myrtle 
always  appeared  to  be  glad  to  see  them,  and  they 
regarded  her  as  a  Darned  Swell  Girl. 

Fred's  Cousin  came  from  St.  Paul  on  a  Visit;  and 
one  Day,  in  the  Street,  he  saw  Myrtle,  and  noticed 
that  Fred  tipped  his  Hat,  and  gave  her  a  Stage  Smile. 

"Oh,  Queen  of  Sheba!"  exclaimed  the  Cousin 
from  St.  Paul,  whose  name  was  Gus,  as  he  stood 
stock  still,  and  watched  Myrtle's  Reversible  Plaid 
disappear  around  a  Corner.  "She's  a  Bird.  Do 
you  know  her  well?" 

"I  know  her  Quite  Well,"  replied  Fred,  coldly. 
"She  is  a  Charming  Girl." 

"  She  is  all  of  that.  You  are  a  great  Describer. 
And  now  what  Night  are  you  going  to  take  me 
around  to  call  on  her  ?  " 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    149 

2?y  George  AJe 

Fred  very  naturally  Hemmed  and  Hawed.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  Myrtle  was  a  member  of  an 
Excellent  Family,  and  had  been  schooled  in  the  Pro- 
prieties, and  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  would 
crave  the  Society  of  slangy  old  Gus,  who  had  an 
abounding  Nerve,  and  furthermore  was  as  Fresh  as 
the  Mountain  Air. 

He  was  the  Kind  of  Fellow  who  would  see  a  Girl 
twice,  and  then,  upon  meeting  her  the  Third  Time, 
he  would  go  up  and  straighten  ner  Cravat  for  her, 
and  call  her  by  her  First  Name. 

Put  him  into  a  Strange  Company  —  en  route  to  a 
Picnic  —  and  by  the  time  the  Baskets  were  unpacked 
he  would  have  a  Blonde  all  to  himself,  and  she  would 
have  traded  her  Fan  for  his  College  Pin. 

If  a  Fair-Looker  on  the  Street  happened  to  glance 
at  him  Hard  he  would  run  up  and  seize  her  by  the 
Hand,  and  convince  her  that  they  had  Met.  And  he 
always  Got  Away  with  it,  too. 

In  a  Department  Store,  while  waiting  for  the  Cash 
Boy  to  come  back  with  the  Change,  he  would  find 
out  the  Girl's  Name,  her  Favorite  Flower,  and  where 
a  Letter  would  reach  her. 


I5Q   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

The  Fable  of  the  Two  Mandolin  Players 

Upon  entering  a  Parlor  Car  at  St.  Paul  he  would 
select  a  Chair  next  to  the  Most  Promising  One  in  Sight, 
and  ask  her  if  she  cared  to  have  the  Shade  lowered. 

Before  the  Train  cleared  the  Yards  he  would  have 
the  Porter  bringing  a  Footstool  for  the  Lady. 

At  Hastings  he  would  be  asking  her  if  she  wanted 
Something  to  Read. 

At  Red  Wing  he  would  be  telling  her  that  she 
resembled  Maxime  Elliott,  and  showing  her  his 
Watch,  left  to  him  by  his  Grandfather,  a  Prominent 
Virginian. 

At  La  Crosse  he  would  be  reading  the  Menu  Card 
to  her,  and  telling  her  how  different  it  is  when  you 
have  Some  One  to  join  you  in  a  Bite. 

At  Milwaukee  he  would  go  out  and  buy  a  Bouquet 
for  her,  and  when  they  rode  into  Chicago  they  would 
be  looking  out  of  the  same  Window,  and  he  would 
be  arranging  for  her  Baggage  with  the  Transfer  Man. 
After  that  they  would  be  Old  Friends. 

Now,  Fred  and  Eustace  had  been  at  School  with 
Gus,  and  they  had  seen  his  Work,  and  they  were  not 
disposed  to  Introduce  him  into  One  of  the  most 
Exclusive  Homes  of  the  City. 


AMERICAN    PROSE  HUMOR    151 

By  George  Ade 

They  had  known  Myrtle  for  many  Years;  but  they 
did  not  dare  to  Address  her  by  her  First  Name,  and 
they  were  positive  that  if  Gus  attempted  any  of  his 
usual  Tactics  with  her  she  would  be  Offended;  and 
naturally  enough,  they  would  be  Blamed  for  bringing 
him  to  the  House. 

But  Gus  insisted.  He  said  he  had  seen  Myrtle, 
and  she  Suited  him  from  the  Ground  up,  and  he  pro- 
posed to  have  Friendly  Doings  with  her.  At  last 
they  told  him  they  would  take  him  if  he  promised  to 
Behave.  Fred  warned  him  that  Myrtle  would  frown 
down  any  Attempt  to  be  Familiar  on  Short  Acquain- 
tance, and  Eustace  said  that  as  long  as  he  had  known 
Myrtle  he  had  never  Presumed  to  be  Free  and 
Forward  with  her.  He  had  simply  played  the 
Mandolin.  That  was  as  Far  Along  as  he  had  ever 
got. 

Gus  told  them  not  to  Worry  about  him.  All  he 
asked  was  a  Start.  He  said  he  was  a  Willing  Per- 
former, but  as  yet  he  had  never  been  Disqualified  for 
Crowding.  Fred  and  Eustace  took  this  to  mean  that 
he  would  not  Overplay  his  Attentions,  jo  they 
escorted  him  to  the  House. 


i$z    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
The  Fable  of  the  Two  Mandolin  Players 

As  soon  as  he  had  been  Presented,  Gus  showed 
her  where  to  sit  on  the  Sofa,  then  he  placed  himself 
about  Six  Inches  away,  and  began  to  Buzz,  looking 
her  straight  in  the  eye.  He  said  that  when  he  first 
saw  her  he  Mistook  her  for  Miss  Prentice,  who  was 
said  to  be  the  Most  Beautiful  Girl  in  St.  Paul,  only, 
when  he  came  closer,  he  saw  that  it  could  n't  be 
Miss  Prentice,  because  Miss  Prentice  didn't  have 
such  Lovely  Hair.  Then  he  asked  her  the  Month 
of  her  Birth  and  told  her  Fortune,  thereby  ccming 
nearer  to  Holding  her  Hand  within  Eight  Minutes 
than  Eustace  had  come  in  a  Lifetime. 

"Play  something,  Boys,"  he  Ordered,  just  as  if 
he  had  paid  them  Money  to  come  along  and  make 
Music  for  them. 

They  unlimbered  their  Mandolins  and  began  to 
play  a  Sousa  March.  He  asked  Myrtle  if  she  had 
seen  the  New  Moon.  She  replied  that  she  had  not, 
so  they  went  Outside. 

When  Fred  and  Eustace  had  finished  the  first  Piece, 
Gus  appeared  at  the  open  Window,  and  asked  them 
to  play  "The  Georgia  Camp-Meeting,"  which  had 
always  been  one  of  his  Favorites. 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    153 
By  George  Ade 

So  they  played  that,  and  when  they  had  Concluded 
there  came  a  Voice  from  the  Outer  Darkness,  and  it 
was  the  Voice  of  Myrtle.  She  said:  "I  '11  tell  you 
what  to  Play;  play  the  Intermezzo." 

Fred  and  Eustace  exchanged  Glances.  They  be- 
gan to  Perceive  that  they  had  been  backed  into  a 
Siding.  With  a  few  Potted  Palms  in  front  of  them, 
and  two  Cards  from  the  Union,  they  would  have 
been  just  the  same  as  a  Hired  Orchestra. 

But  they  played  the  Intermezzo  and  felt  Peevish. 
Then  they  went  to  the  Window  and  looked  out. 
Gus  and  Myrtle  were  sitting  in  the  Hammock,  which 
had  quite  a  Pitch  towards  the  Center.  Gus  had 
braced  himself  by  Holding  to  the  back  of  the  Ham- 
mock. He  did  not  have  his  Arm  around  Myrtle, 
but  he  had  it  Extended  in  a  Line  parallel  with  her 
Back.  What  he  had  done  would  n't  Justify  a  Girl  in 
saying,  "Sir!"  but  it  started  a  Real  Scandal  with 
Fred  and  Eustace.  They  saw  that  the  only  Way 
to  Get  Even  with  her  was  to  go  Home  without 
saying  "Good  Night."  So  they  slipped  out  the 
Side  Door,  shivering  with  indignation. 

After  that,  for  several  Weeks,  Gus  kept  Myrtle  so 


154   AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR 
The  Fable  of  the  Two  Mandolin  Players 

Busy  that  she  had  no  Time  to  think  of  considering 
other  Candidates.  He  sent  Books  to  her  Mother, 
and  allowed  the  Old  Gentleman  to  take  Chips  away 
from  him  at  Poker. 

They  were  Married  in  the  Autumn,  and  Father-in- 
law  took  Gus  into  the  Firm,  saying  that  he  had 
needed  a  Pusher  for  a  Long  Time. 

At  the  Wedding,  the  two  Mandolin  Players  were 
permitted  to  act  as  Ushers. 

MORAL  :  To  get  a  fair  Trial  of  Speed,  use  a  P ace- 
Maker. 


Claudie 
By 

George  Ade 


CLAUDIE 

BY   GEORGE   ADE 

"  "\I  7HERE  's  he  at?"  asked  the  overgrown  mes- 
*  *  senger  boy,  who  had  clumped  slowly  along 
the  hallway,  and  who  now  entered  the  room,  leaving 
the  door  open  behind  him. 

"Ain't  he  good?"  asked  Artie,  turning  to  Miller, 
who  was  gazing  at  the  messenger  with  a  look  of  pained 
surprise  in  his  eyes. 

"Where's  he  at?"  repeated  the  messenger  boy. 

He  seemed  rather  large  and  old  to  be  in  the  uniform, 
for  there  was  a  scrabble  of  soft  beard  on  his  chin.  His 
face  and  hands  appeared  to  have  been  treated  with 
fine  coal-dust,  his  cap  leaned  forward  on  one  side 
of  his  head,  and  whenever  he  spoke  he  had  to  make 
new  disposition  of  a  large  amount  of  chewing  tobacco 
which  he  carried  in  his  mouth. 

When  he  asked,  "Where's  he  at?"  he  pro- 
nounced it  "  where 'ce,"  and  in  all  his  subsequent 
talk  he  gave  the  "s"  a  soft  and  hissing  sound  well 
157 


i;8    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Claudie 

prolonged,  to  the  evident  enjoyment  of  Artie  and  the 
mild  wonderment  of  Miller. 

"Where's  who  at?"  demanded  Artie,  adopting 
a  frown  and  a  harsh  manner. 

"W'y,  t'e  four-eyed  nobs  dat  sent  me  out  on  t'e 
Sout'  Side." 

"Are  you  the  same  little  boy?  Would  n't  that  frost 
you,  though,  Miller?  This  is  little  Bright-eyes  that  took 
the  note  for  Hall." 

"Aw,  what's  eatin'  you?"  asked  the  boy,  giving 
a  warlike  curl  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Oh,  ow!  Listen  to  that.  I'll  bet  you're  the 
toughest  boy  that  ever  happened.  What  you  been 
doin'  all  day  —  playin'  marbles  for  keeps,  or  standin' 
in  front  o'  one  o'  them  dime  museeums?" 

"  Aw,  say;  you  t'ink  you  're  fly.  Dat  young  feller 
sent  me  all  t'e  way  to  forty-t'ree  ninety-t'ree  Callamet 
Av'noo.  I  couldn't  get  back  no  sooner." 

"Who  was  it  the  note  was  to? " 

"His  rag,  I  guess." 

"Oh-h-h-h!  His  rag!  What  do  you  think  o'  that, 
Miller?  Ain't  this  boy  a  bird?  Can  you  beat  him? 
Can  you  tie  him?  Boy,  you  're  all  right." 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    i  ;9 
By  George  Ade 

"So  are  you  —  dat  is,  from  y'r  head  up." 

"An'  the  feet  down,  huh?  You're  one  o*  them 
'Hully  chee,  Chonny,'  boys,  ain't  you?  You're 
so  tough  they  couldn't  dent  you  with  an  axe." 

"Is  dat  so-o-o-o? "  asked  the  boy,  with  a  fright- 
ful escape  of  "s,"  and  a  glare  such  as  he  must 
have  used  to  terrify  all  the  smaller  boys  at  the  call 
station. 

"  If  I  was  as  tough  as  you  are  I  'd  be  afraid  o'  myself, 
on  the  level." 

"You  t'ink  you're  havin'  sport  wit'  me,  don't 
you?  I  seen  a  lot  o'  dem  funny  mugs  before  dis." 

"  W'y,  Claudie,  I  would  n't  try  to  josh  you.  I  think 
you're  a  nice,  clean  boy.  Ain't  you  goin'  to  take 
off  your  gloves? " 

Miller  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  howled  with 
laughter. 

"I  beg  y'r  pardon,  Claudie,"  continued  Artie. 
"I  thought  them  was  gloves  you  had  on.  Gee,  is  them 
your  mits?  You  're  a  brunette,  ain't  you?" 

The  messenger  boy  had  been  somewhat  taken  back 
by  the  allusion  to  his  "gloves,"  but  he  recovered  and 
said,  still  gazing  at  Artie:  "S-s-ay,  you  're  havin'  all 


i6o   AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR 
Claudie 

kinds  o'  fun  wit'  me,  ain't  you?  Well,  w'at  you  — 
anyt'ing  you  say  cuts  no  ice  wit'  me." 

"You  'd  better  smoke  up,  or  you  '11  go  out,"  sug- 
gested Artie.  "You  was  a  little  slow  on  the  come-back 
that  last  time.  Get  on  to  him,  Miller;  he  's  lookin' 
a  hole  in  me." 

"He  has  a  bad  eye,"  said  Miller. 

"Yes;  and  as  the  guy  says  on  the  stage,  I  don't 
like  his  other  one  very  well,  neither.  I'll  bet  he'd 
be  a  nasty  boy  in  a  fight.  I  'd  hate  to  run  against  him 
late  at  night.  Them  messenger  boys  is  bad  people. 
Guess  what  they  train  on." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miller. 

"Cocoanut  pie.  That  ain't  no  fairy  tale,  neither. 
Cocoanut  pie  and  milk;  that's  what  they  live  on. 
I  '11  bet  Claudie  here  with  the  face  has  got  about 
three  cocoanut  pies  wadded  into  him  now.  How  about 
it,  Claudie?" 

"Say,"  began  the  messenger  boy,  nodding  his  head 
slowly  to  emphasize  his  remarks,  "I  'd  give  a  t'ousand 
dollars  if  I  had  your  gall." 

"That'll  be  all  right.  Keep  the  change.  By  the 
way,  old  chap,  are  you  lookin'  for  any  one?" 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR     161 
£y  George  Ade 

This  was  another  surprise  for  the  boy. 

"Yes-s-s;  I'm  lookin'  for  some  one,"  he  replied. 

"Who  it  is  is  it?" 

"W'y,  t'e  fellow  dat  wears  de  windows  in  his 
face.  I  got  a  note  here  for  him,"  and  he  pulled 
it  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Looks  like  you've  been  chewin'  it.  That's 
his  desk  over  there.  He  got  dead  tired  o'  waitin' 
for  you,  and  went  out  to  tell  the  police  you  was 
lost.  I  think  they  're  draggin'  the  lake  for  you 
now." 

"Aw,  go  ahead;  dat 's  right.  Dere's  lots  o'  you 
blokies  t'ink  you  can  have  fun  wit'  us  kids." 

"Get  next  to  the  walk,  Miller;  get  on,  get  on!  " 
exclaimed  Artie,  as  the  messenger  boy  moved  over 
toward  Hall's  desk.  On  the  way  he  stopped  for 
a  moment  and  spat  copiously  into  a  waste-basket. 

"  He  walks  like  he  had  gravel  in  his  shoes,  don't  he?" 
said  Artie.  "Look  at  the  way  he  holds  them  shoulders. 
Ain't  he  tough, though?  " 

"Some  day  you'll  get  too  gay,  an'  a  guy  '11  give 
you  a  funny  poke,"  remarked  the  messenger  boy, 
as  he  slowly  settled  into  young  Mr.  Hall's  chair,  and 


i6a     AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Claudie 

again  directed  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  terrorizing 
stare  at  Artie. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Miller?  Claudie  's  a  scrapper. 
He  'd  just  as  soon  give  a  guy  a  '  tump  in  de  teet '  as  look 
at  him." 

The  boy  gave  a  sniff  of  contempt,  and  began  an 
examination  of  the  papers  on  Mr.  Hall's  desk,  picking 
up  some  of  the  letters  and  studying  them,  his  lips  going 
through  the  motions  of  reading.  Artie  sat,  with  face 
illumined,  and  watched  the  boy.  He  was  evidently 
fascinated  by  the  display  of  supreme  impudence. 

"Ain't  there  nothin'  we  can  do  for  you?  "  he  asked. 
"  Miller  's  got  some  private  letters  you  can  read  when 
you  get  through  over  there." 

"Aw,  go  chase  yourself,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Well,  Claudie,  I've  seen  a  good  many  o'  you 
boys,  but  you're  the  best  ever,"  remarked  Artie. 
"If  Hall's  tryin'  to  win  out  any  South  Side  lady 
friend  I  don't  see  as  he  could  do  better  than  send  you 
out  with  the  note.  I  think  you  '11  be  liked  wherever 
you  go.  Gee!  you  've  got  that  icehouse  stare  o'  yours 
down  pat.  If  you  keep  on  springin'  that  you  '11  scare 
somebody  one  o'  these  days." 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR     163 
By  George  Ade 

"Aw,  let  go,"  said  the  boy  in  evident  disgust. 
"When  do  I  get  to  see  t'e  fellow  dat  sets  here? 
Won't  one  o'  youse  pay  me?" 

"Miller,  pay  the  boy  and  let  him  go.  He  ain't 
had  any  cocoanut  pie  for  nearly  an  hour  now,  have 
you,  Willie  —  er  —  Claudie,  I  mean.  What  is  your 
name,  Claudie? " 

"What's  it  to  you?" 

"Nothin*  much;  only  I  wanted  to  know.  You  've 
kind  o'  won  me  out.  Here!  Don't  move!  I  '11  bring 
the  waste-basket  over  to  you." 

At  that  moment  young  Mr.  Hall  came  in  and  said: 
"Ah,  boy,  have  you  that  note  for  me? " 

"S-s-s-ure.  Where  you  been  at?  You're  helva 
duck  to  keep  a  kid  waitin'  here.  You  've  got  'o  pay 
me  ten  cents  more." 

"Don't  be  saucy,"  said  young  Mr.  Hall,  severely. 

"Aw,  rats!  " 

"  You  ain't  mad,  are  you,  Claudie?  "  asked  Artie, 
as  the  boy  laboriously  moved  toward  the  door,  making 
noises  with  his  feet. 

"Oh-h-h,  but  you  t'ink  you  're  a  kidder,"  replied 
the  boy,  with  a  sour  smile. 


164   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Claudie 

"Look  out!  You  '11  step  on  one  o'  your  feet  there 
in  a  minute." 

Then  they  heard  him  go^clump-clump-clump  out 
through  the  hall  and  away. 

"Confound  such  a  boy!"  exciaimed  young  Mr. 
Hall. 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,"  said  Artie,  "only  you  ain't 
used  to  his  ways." 

"He's  tough  enough,"  suggested  Miller. 

"Yes,"  said  Artie,  "I  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  he 
thinks  he  is  —  not  for  a  million  dollars." 


Mr.  Dooley  on  the 
French  Character 
By 
Finley  Peter  Dunne 


MR.  DOOLEY  ON  THE  FRENCH 
CHARACTER 

BY   FINLEY    PETER   DUNNE 

"  *T*H'  Fr-rinch,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  "  ar-re  a 
•*•  tumulchuse  people." 

"Like  as  not,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy,  "there's 
some  of  our  blood  in  thim.  A  good  manny  iv  our 
people  wint  over  wanst.  They  cudden't  all  've  been 
kilt  at  Fontenoy." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  "'tis  another  kind  iv 
tumulchuse.  Whin  an  Irishman  rages,  't  is  with  wan 
idee  in  his  moind.  He  's  goin'  for'ard  again  a  single 
inimy,  an'  not  stone  walls  or  irne  chains  '11  stop  him. 
He  may  pause  Pr  a  drink,  or  to  take  a  shy  at  a  polis- 
man — Pr  a  polisman  's  always  in  th'  way — but  he  's 
as  thrue  as  th'  needle  in  the  camel's  eye,  as  Hogan 
says,  to  th'  objec'  iv  his  hathred.  So  he  's  been  Pr 
four  hindherd  years,  an'  so  he  '11  always  be  while 
they  'se  an  England  on  th'  map.  When  England  pur- 
rishes,  th'  Irish  '11  die  iv  what  Hogan  calls  ongwee, 
167 


i68  AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Mr.  Dooley  on  the  French  Character 

which   is   havin'   no  wan  in  th'   weary  wurruld  ye 
don't  love. 

"  But  wuth  th'  Fr-rinch  't  is  dift'rent.  I  say  't  is 
dift'rent  with  th'  Fr-rinch.  They  're  an  onnaisy  an'  a 
thrubbled  people.  They  start  out  down  th'  street, 
loaded  up  with  obscenthe  an'  ciganeets,  pavin'  blocks 
an'  walkin'  shticks  an'  shtove-lids  in  their  hands, 
cryin'  'A  base  Cap  Dhry-fuss!'  th'  Cap  bein'  far  off 
in  a  cage,  by  dad.  So  far,  so  good.  'A  base  Cap 
Dhry-fuss!'  says  I;  an'  the  same  to  all  thraitors,  an' 
manny  iv  thim,  whether  they  ar-re  or  not.'  But 
along  comes  a  man  with  a  poor  hat.  'Where  did  he 
get  th'  hat?'  demands  th'  mob.  Down  with  th'  bad 
tile!'  they  say.  'A  base  th'  lid!'  An'  they  desthroy 
th'  hat,  an'  th'  man  undher  it  succumbs  to  th'  rule 
iv  th'  majority  an'  jines  th'  mob.  On  they  go  till 
they  come  to  a  restaurant.  'Ha,'  says  they,  'th' 
resort  iv  the  infamious  Duclose.'  'His  char-rges 
ar-re  high,'  says  wan.  'I  found  a  fish-bone  in  his 
soup,'  says  another.  'He  's  a  thraitor,'  says  a  third. 
'Abase  th'  soup  kitchen!  A  base  th'  caafe!'  says 
they;  an'  they  seize  th'  unfortunate  Duclose,  an' 
bate  him  an'  upset  his  kettles  iv  broth.  Manetime 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    169 

By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

where 's  Cap  Dhry-fiiss?  Off  in  hij  comfortable 
cage,  swingin'  on  th'  perch  an'  atin'  seed  out  iv  a 
small  bottle  stuck  in  th'  wire.  Be  th'  time  th'  mob 
has  desthroyed  what  they  see  on  th'  way  they  've 
Prgot  the  Cap  intirely;  an'  he  's  safe  Pr  another  day. 

"  'T  is  unforch'nit,  but  't  is  thrue.  Th'  Fr-rinch 
ar-re  not  steady  ayether  in  their  politics  or  their 
morals.  That 's  where  they  get  done  by  th'  hated 
British.  Th'  dift'rence  in  furrin'  policies  is  the 
difPrence  between  a  second-rate  safe-blower  an*  a 
first-class  boonco  steerer.  Th'  Fr-rinch  buy  a  ton  iv 
dinnymite,  spind  five  years  in  dhrillin'  a  hole  through 
a  steel  dure,  blow  open  th'  safe,  lose  a  leg  or  an 
ar-rm,  an'  get  away  with  th'  li'bilities  iv  th'  firm. 
Th'  English  dhress  up  Pr  a  Methodist  preacher, 
stick  a  piece  iv  lead  pipe  in  th'  tails  iv  their  coat  in 
case  iv  emargency,  an'  get  all  th'  money  there  is 
in  th5  line. 

"In  th'  fr-ront  dure  comes  th'  Englishman  with  a 
coon  king  on  ayether  ar-rm  that 's  jus'  loaned  him 
their  kingdoms  on  a  prom'ssory  note,  an'  discovers 
th'  Fr-rinchman  emargin'  frim  th'  rooms  iv  th'  safe. 
'What  ar-re  ye  doin'  here?'  says  th'  Englishman. 


17Q    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Mr.  Dooley  on  the  French  Character 

'  Robbin'  th'  naygurs,'  says  th'  Fr-rinchman,  bein' 
thruthful  as  well  as  polite.  'Wicked  man,'  says  the 
Englishman.  'What  ar-re  ye  doin'  here?'  says  the 
Fr-rinchman.  '  Improvin'  tha  morals  iv  th'  inhab- 
itants,' says  the  Englishman.  'Is  it  not  so,  Rastus?' 
he  says.  'It  is,'  says  wan  iv  th'  kings.  '  I 'm  a 
poorer  but  a  betther  man  since  ye  came,'  he  says. 
'Yes,'  says  th'  Englishman,  'I  pro-pose  Pr  to  thruly 
rayform  this  onhappy  counthry,'  he  says.  '  This 
benighted  haythen  on  me  exthreme  left  has  been 
injooced  to  cut  out  a  good  dale  iv  his  wife's  busi- 
ness,' he  says,  'an'  go  through  life  torminted  be 
on'y  wan  spouse,'  he  says.  'TV  r-rest  will  go  to 
wurruk  Pr  me,'  he  says.  'All  crap  games  bein' 
particylar  ongodly  '11  be  undher  th'  conthrol  iv  th' 
gover'mint,  which,'  he  says,  'is  me.  Policy  shops  '11 
be  r-run  carefully,  an'  I  've  appinted  Rastus  here 
Writer-in-Waitin'  to  her  Majesty,'  he  says. 

"  'Th'  r-rum  they  dhrink  in  these  par-rts,'  he 
says,  'is  fearful,'  he  says.  'What  shall  we  do  to 
stop  th'  ac-cursed  thraffic  ?'  'Sell  thim  gin,'  says  I. 
''Tis  shameful  they  shud  go  out  with  nawthin'  to 
hide  their  nakedness,'  he  says.  'I'll  fetch  thim 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    171 
By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

clothes;  but,'  he  says,  'as  th'  weather  's  too  warrum 
Pr  clothes,  I'll  not  sell  thim  annything  that'll  last 
long,'  he  says.  '  If  it  was  n't  Pr  relligion,'  he  says, 
'I  don't  know  what  th'  'ell  th'  wurruld  wud  come 
to,'  he  says.  'Who's  relligion?'  says  th'  Fr-rinch- 
man.  '  My  relligion,' says  th'  Englishman.  'These 
pore,  benighted  savidges,'  he  says,  '  '11  not  be  left  to 
yer  odjious  morals  an'  yer  hootchy-kootchy  school 
iv  thought,'  says  he;  'but,'  he  says,  'undher  th' 
binif'cint  r-rule  iv  a  wise  an'  thrue  gover'mint,'  he 
says,  '  '11  be  thruly  prepared  Pr  hivin,'  he  says,  'whin 
thir  time  comes  to  go,'  he  says,  'which  I  thrust  will 
not  be  long,'  he  says.  *  So  I  '11  thank  ye  to  be  off,' 
he  says,  'or  I  '11  take  th'  thick  end  iv  th'  slung-shot 
to  ye,'  he  says." 


Mr.  Dooley  on  the 

Victorian  Era 
By 
Finley  Peter  Dunne 


MR.  DOOLEY   ON   THE   VICTO- 
RIAN ERA 

BY   FINLEY    PETER   DUNNE 

"    A  R-RE  ye  goin'  to  cillybrate  th'  queen's  jubi- 

O"    lee?"  asked  Mr.  Dooley. 

"What 's  that?"  demanded  Mr.  Hennessy,  with 
a  violent  start. 

"To-day,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  "her  gracious 
Majesty  Victorya,  Queen  iv  Great  Britain  an*  that 
part  iv  Ireland  north  iv  Sligo,  has  reigned  f'r  sixty 
long  and  tiresome  years." 

"I  don't  care  if  she  has  snowed  f'r  sixty  years," 
said  Mr.  Hennessy.  "  I  '11  not  cillybrate  it.  She 
may  be  a  good  woman  f'r  all  I  know,  but  dam  her 
pollytics." 

"Ye  needn't  be  pro-fane  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Dooley.  "  I  only  ast  ye  a  civil  question.  F'r 
mesilf,  I  have  no  feelin'  on  th'  subject.  I  am  not 
with  the  queen,  an'  I  'm  not  again  her.  At  th' 
same  time  I  corjally  agree  with  me  frind  Captain 


176    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Mr.  Dooley  on  the  Victorian  Era 

Finerty,  who  's  put  his  newspaper  in  mournin'  Pr 
th'  ivint.  I  won't  march  in  th'  parade,  an'  I  won't 
put  anny  dinnymite  undher  thim  that  does.  I  don't 
say  th'  marchers  an'  dinnymiters  ar-re  not  both 
r-right.  'Tis  purely  a  question  iv  taste,  an',  as  th' 
ixicutive  says  whin  both  candydates  are  mimbers  iv 
th'  camp,  '  Pathrites  will  use  their  own  discreetion.' 

"Th'  good  woman  niver  done  me  no  har-rm;  an' 
beyond  throwin'  a  rock  or  two  into  an  orangey's 
procission  an'  subscribin'  to  tin  dollars'  worth  iv 
Fenian  bonds,  I  've  threated  her  like  a  lady.  Anny 
gredge  I  iver  had  again  her  I  burrid  long  ago.  We  're 
both  well  on  in  years,  an'  't  is  no  use  carrying  har-rd 
feelin's  to  th'  grave.  About  th'  time  th'  lord  cham- 
berlain wint  over  to  tell  her  she  was  queen,  an'  she 
came  out  in  her  nitey  to  hear  th'  good  news,  I  was 
announced  into  this  worruld  iv  sin  an'  sorrow.  So 
ye  see  we  've  reigned  about  th'  same  lenth  iv  time, 
an'  I  ought  to  be  cillybratin'  me  dimon'  jubilee.  I 
wud,  too,  if  I  had  anny  dimon's.  Do  ye  r-run 
down  to  Aldherman  O'Brien's  an*  borrow  twinty 
or  thirty  f'r  me. 

"Great  happenin's  have  me  an'  Queen  Victorya 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    177 
By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

seen  in  these  sixty  years.  Durin'  our  binificent  pris- 
ince  on  earth  th'  nations  have  grown  r-rirh  an' 
prosperous.  Great  Britain  has  ixtinded  her  domain 
until  th'  sun  niver  sets  on  it.  No  more  do  th'  original 
owners  iv  th'  sile,  they  bein'  kept  movin'  be  th' 
polis.  While  she  was  lookin'  on  in  England,  I  was 
lookin'  on  in  this  counthry.  I  have  seen  America 
spread  out  fr'm  th'  Atlantic  to  th'  Pacific,  with  a 
branch  office  iv  the  Standard  He  Comp'ny  in  ivry 
hamlet.  I  've  seen  th'  shackles  dropped  fr'm  th' 
slave,  so's  he  cud  be  lynched  in  Ohio.  I've  seen 
this  gr-reat  city  desthroyed  be  fire  fr'm  De  Koven 
Sthreet  to  th'  Lake  View  pumpin'  station,  and  thin 
rise,  felix-like,  fr'm  its  ashes— all  but  th'  West  Side, 
which  was  not  burned.  I  've  seen  Jim  Mace  beat 
Mike  McCool,  an'  Tom  Allen  beat  Jim  Mace,  an' 
somebody  beat  Tom  Allen,  an'  Jawn  Sullivan  beat 
him,  an'  Corbett  beat  Sullivan,  an'  Fitz  beat  Cor- 
bett;  an',  if  I  live  to  cillybrate  me  goold-watch-an' - 
chain  jubilee,  I  may  see  sum  wan  put  it  all  over  Fitz. 
"  Oh,  what  things  I  've  seen  in  me  day  an* 
Victorya's  !  Think  iv  that  gran'  procission  iv  lithry 
men — Tinnyson  an'  Longfellow  an'  Bill  Nye  an' 


i78   AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Mr.  Dooley  on  the  Victorian  Era 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  an'  Tim  Scanlan  an' — an'  I 
can't  name  thim  all;  they  're  too  many.  An'  th' 
brave  gin'rals — Von  Molkey  an'  Bismarck  an'  U.  S. 
Grant  an'  gallant  Phil  Sheridan  an'  Coxey.  Think 
iv  thim  durin*  me  reign.  An'  th'  invintions — th' 
steam-injine  an'  th'  printin' -press  an'  th'  cotton-gin 
an'  the  gin  sour  an*  th'  bicycle  an'  th'  flyin' -ma- 
chine an'  th'  nickel  -  in -th'- slot  machine  an*  the 
Croker  machine  and  th'  sody  fountain  an' — crownin' 
wur-ruk  iv  our  civilization — th'  cash  raygister.  What 
gr-reat  advances  has  science  made  in  my  time  an' 
Victorya's,  t'r,  when  we  entered  public  life,  it  took 
three  men  to  watch  th'  bar-keep,  while  to-day  ye  can 
tell  within  eight  dollars  an  hour  what  he  's  took  in. 

"  Glory  be,  whin  I  look  back  fr-rm  this  day  iv 
gin'ral  rejoicin'  in  me  rhinestone  jubilee,  an'  see 
what  changes  has  taken  place,  an*  how  manny  people 
have  died,  an'  how  much  betther  off  the  wur-ruld 
is,  I'm  proud  iv  mesilf.  War  an'  pest'lence  an' 
famine  have  occurred  in  me  time,  but  I  count  thim 
light  with  th'  binifits  that  have  fallen  to  th'  race  since 
I  come  on  th'  earth." 

"What  ar-re  ye  talkin'  about?"  cried  Mr.  Hen- 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    179 
By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

nessy,  in  deep  disgust.  "All  this  time  ye  've  been 
standin*  behind  this  bar  ladlin'  out  disturbance,  to  th' 
Sixth  Wa-ard,  an'  ye  haven't  been  as  far  east  as 
Mitchigan  Avnoo  in  twinty  years.  What  have  ye 
had  to  do  with  all  these  things?" 

"Well,"   said  Mr.  Dooley,  "I  had  as  much  to 
do  with  them  as  th'  queen." 


Mr.  Dooley  on  Golf 

* 

Finley  Peter  Dunne 


MR.   DOOLEY   ON   GOLF 

BY   FINLEY    PETER   DUNNE 

"AN'  what  's  this  game  iv  goluf  like,  I  dinnaw?" 
**•     said   Mr.    Hennessy,   lighting   his  pipe  with 
much  unnecessary  noise.      "Ye  're  a  good  deal  iv  a 
spoort,  Jawnny:  did  ye  iver  thry  it?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  McKenna.  "I  used  to  roll  a 
hoop  onct  upon  a  time,  but  I  'm  out  of  condition 
now." 

"It  ain't  like  base-ball,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy, 
"an*  it  ain't  like  shinny,  an'  it  ain't  like  lawn- 
teenis,  an*  it  ain't  like  forty -fives,  an'  it  ain't  —  " 

"  Like  canvas-back  duck  or  anny  other  game  ye 
know,"  said  Mr.  Dooley. 

"Thin  what  is  it  like?"  said  Mr.  Hennessy.  "  I 
see  be  th'  pa-aper  that  Hobart  What-d'-ye-call-himis 
wan  iv  th'  best  at  it.  Th'  other  day  he  made  a 
scoor  iv  wan  hundherd  an'  sixty-eight,  but  whether 
't  was  miles  or  stitches,  I  cudden't  make  out  fr'm  th' 
raypoorts." 

183 


184    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Mr.  Dooley  on  Golf 

"  'T  is  little  ye  know,"  saud  Mr.  Dooley.  "Th' 
game  of  goluf  is  as  old  as  th'  hills.  Me  father  had 
goluf  links  all  over  his  place,  an'  whin  I  was  a  kid, 
't  was  wan  iv  th'  principal  spoorts  iv  me  life,  afther 
I  'd  dug  the  turf  f'r  th'  avenin5,  to  go  out  and 
putt  —  " 

"Foot,  ye  mean,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy.  "They  'se 
no  such  wurrud  in  th'  English  language  as  putt. 
Belinda  called  me  down  har-rd  on  it  no  more  thin 
las'  night." 

"There  ye  go!"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  angrily. 
"  There  ye  go!  D '  ye  think  this  here  game  iv  goluf 
is  a  spellin'  match?  'Tis  like  ye,  Hinnissy,  to  be 
refereein'  a  twinty-round  glove  contest  be  th'  rule  iv 
three.  I  tell  ye,  I  used  to  go  out  in  th'  avenin'  an* 
putt  me  mashie  like  hell-an'-all,  til  I  was  knowed 
fr'm  wan  end  iv  th'  county  to  th'  other  as  th' 
champeen  putter.  I  putted  two  men  fr'm  Roscom- 
mon  in  wan  day,  an'  they  had  to  be  took  home  on  a 
dure. 

"  In  America  th'  game  is  played  more  ginteel,  an' 
is  more  like  cigareet-smokin',  though  less  onhealthy 
f'r  th'  lungs.  'T  is  a  good  game  to  play  in  a  ham- 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    185 
By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

mick,  whin  ye  're  all  tired  out  fr'm  social  duties  or 
shovellin'  coke.  Out  iv  dure  golf  is  played  be  the 
followin'  rules.  If  ye  bring  ye  'er  wife  f'r  to  see  th' 
game,  an'  she  has  her  name  in  th'  paper,  that  counts 
ye  wan.  So  th'  first  thing  ye  do  is  to  find  th'  ray- 
poorter,  an'  tell  him  ye  're  there.  Thin  ye  ordher 
a  bottle  iv  brown  pop,  an'  have  ye'er  second  fan  ye 
with  a  towel.  Afther  this  ye  'd  dhress,  an'  here 
ye  've  got  to  be  dam  particklar  or  ye  '11  be  stuck  f'r 
th'  dhrinks.  If  ye'er  necktie  is  not  on  straight,  that 
counts  ye'er  opponent  wan.  If  both  ye  and  ye'er 
opponent  have  ye'er  neckties  on  crooked,  th'  first 
man  that  sees  it  gets  th'  stakes.  Thin  ye  ordher  a 
carredge  — ' ' 

"Order  what?"  demanded  Mr.  McKenna. 

"A  carredge." 

"What  for?" 

"  F'r  to  take  ye  'round  th'  links.  Ye  have  a 
little  boy  followin'  ye,  carry  in'  ye'er  clubs.  Th' 
man  that  has  the  smallest  little  boy  it  counts  him  two. 
If  th'  little  boy  has  th'  rickets,  it  counts  th'  man  in 
th'  carredge  three.  The  little  boys  is  called  caddies; 
but  Clarence  Heaney  that  tol'  me  all  this  —  he  be- 


i86   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Mr.  Dooley  on  Golf 

longs  to  th'  Foorth  Wa-ard  Goluf  an'  McKinley 
Club  —  said  what  th'  little  boys  calls  th'  players  'd 
not  be  fit  f'r  to  repeat." 

"Well,  whin  ye  dhrive  up  to  th'  tea  grounds  — " 
"  Th'  what?"  demanded  Mr.  Hennessy. 
"Th'  tea  grounds,  that's  like  th'  homeplate  in 
base-ball,  or  ordherin'  a  piece  iv  chalk  in  a  game  iv 
spoil  five.  Its  th'  beginnin'  iv  ivrything.  Whin  ye 
get  to  th'  tea  grounds,  ye  step  out,  an'  have  ye'er 
hat  irned  be  th'  caddie.  Thin  ye'er  man  that  ye'er 
goin'  against  comes  up,  an'  he  asks  ye,  '  Do  you 
know  Potther  Pammer?'  Well,  if  ye  don't  know 
Potther  Pammer,  it  's  all  up  with  ye  :  ye  lose  two 
points.  But  ye  come  right  back  at  him  with  an 
upper  cut :  '  Do  ye  live  on  th'  Lake  Shore  Dhrive  ?' 
If  he  does  n't,  ye  have  him  in  th'  nine  hole.  Ye 
need  n't  play  with  him  anny  more.  But,  if  ye  do 
play  with  him,  he  has  to  spot  three  balls.  If  he  's 
a  good  man  an'  shifty  on  his  feet,  he  '11  counter  be 
askin'  ye  where  ye  spend  th'  summer.  Now,  ye 
can't  tell  him  that  ye  spent  th'  summer  with  wan 
hook  on  th'  free  lunch  an'  another  on  th'  ticket  tape, 
and  so  ye  go  back  three.  That  need  n't  discourage 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    187 
By  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

ye  at  all,  at  all.  Here  's  yer  chance  to  mix  up,  an' 
ye  ask  him  if  he  was  iver  in  Scotland.  If  he  was  n't, 
it  counts  ye  five.  Thin  ye  tell  him  that  ye  had  an 
aunt  wanst  that  heerd  th'  Jook  iv  Argyle  talk  in  a 
phonograph;  an',  onless  he  comes  back  an'  shoots  it 
into  ye  that  he  was  wanst  run  over  be  th'  Prince  iv 
Wales,  ye  have  him  groggy.  I  don't  know  whether 
th'  Jook  iv  Argyle  or  th'  Prince  iv  Wales  counts  f'r 
most.  They  're  like  the  right  an'  left  bower  iv 
thrumps.  Th'  best  players  is  called  scratch-men. 

"What  's  that  f'r?"  Mr.  Hennessy  asked. 

"It  's  a  Scotch  game,"  saud  Mr.  Dooley,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  "I  wonder  how  it  come  out 
to-day.  Here  's  th'  pa-aper.  Let  me  see.  McKinley 
at  Canton.  Still  there.  He  niver  cared  to  wandher 
fr'm  his  own  fireside.  Collar-button  men  f'r  th' 
goold  standard.  Statues  iv  Heidelback,  Ickleheimer 
an'  Company  to  be  erected  in  Washington.  Another 
Vanderbuilt  weddin'.  That  sounds  like  goluf,  but  it 
ain't.  Newport  society  livin'  in  Mrs.  Potther  Pam- 
mer's  cellar.  Green-goods  men  declare  f'r  honest 
money.  Anson  in  foorth  place  some  more.  Pianny 
tuners  f'r  McKinley.  Li  Hung  Chang  smells  a  rat. 


i88    AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Mr.  Dooley  on  Golf 

Abner  McKinley  supports  the  goold  standard.  Wait 
a  minyit.  Here  it  is:  'Golufin  gay  attire.'  Let 
me  see.  H'm.  'Foozled  his  approach,' — nasty 
thing.  'Topped  th'  balL'  'Three  up  an'  two  to 
play.'  Ah,  here's  the  scoor.  '  Among  those  present 
were  Messrs,  and  Mesdames  —  " 

"Hoi'  on!"  cried  Mr.  Hennessy,  grabbing  the 
paper  out  of  his  friend's  hands.  "That's  thim  that 
was  there." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  decisively,  "that's 
th'  goluf  scoor." 


In  the  Country 

By 

Hayden  Caruth 


IN    THE   COUNTRY* 
BY  HAYDEN  CARUTH 

\I  7HEN,  after  ten  years'  exhortation,  I  induced 
*  *  my  friend  Chester  Kent  to  decide  to  move 
to  the  country,  I  felt  much  gratified.  We  are  old 
schoolmates,  and  our  wives  are  devoted  to  each  other. 
I  had  hoped  the  Kents  would  come  to  Jersey,  where 
we  live,  but  they  decided,  so  Chet  informed  me,  as 
we  chanced  to  meet  one  day  in  an  elevated  train,  on 
Westchester  County.  I  told  him  if  he  needed  any 
advice  about  rural  matters  that  he  must  not  hesitate  to 
ask  questions.  My  last  charge  to  him  as  we  parted 
was  to  write  often.  He  said  he  would.  He  did. 

I 

Wednesday. 

MY  DEAR  WILL. — We  're  here  at  last,  and  though 
we're  not  much  settled  yet,  I'm  going  to  keep  my 
promise  to  write.  In  fact,  it  is  no  more  than  your 

*  From  Harper's  Magazine.  Copyright,  1901,  by  Harper  & 
Brothers. 

191 


i9z    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

In  the  Country 

due,  old  fellow.  We  're  delighted  with  the  place  and 
feel  that  we  're  going  to  be  very  happy  here,  and  to 
you  we  owe  all  the  thanks  for  getting  out  of  that  hor- 
rible flat  and  into  the  beautiful  country.  The  house, 
we  think,  we  shall  like  very  much  after  we  get  a  little 
acquainted  with  it.  True,  it  seems  to  me  I  could 
have  made  it  a  bit  more  convenient  if  I  had  had  the 
planning  of  it,  but  this  may  be  only  professional  jeal- 
ousy. But  I  must  believe  that  you  will  agree  with 
me  that  the  architect's  reason  for  placing  the  parlor 
between  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room  is  somewhat 
mysterious.  There  is  a  beautiful  fireplace  in  the 
room  which  we  shall  use  for  a  library,  which  is  just 
the  other  side  of  the  kitchen,  and  convenient  to  the 
well,  clotheslines,  grindstone,  leach,  and  smoke-house. 
We  think  a  great  deal  of  this  last-named  —  that  is, 
Laura  does.  You  know  she  rather  objected  to  my 
smoking  all  over  the  house,  and  she  says  I  'm  to  put 
a  window  in  the  smoke-house  and  use  it  for  a 
smoking-room,  since  we  sha'n't  have  any  hams 
to  smoke  till  next  fall.  Perhaps  even  then,  by 
using  mild  tobacco  and  a  cob  pipe,  I  can  still  use  it, 
and  smoke  the  hams  and  bacon  beautifully  at  the 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     193 
By  Hay  den  Caruth 

same  time  I  do  myself.      Of  course  I  shall  get  a  flock 
of  pigs. 

The  view  from  the  veranda  is  delightful.  Woods 
and  hills,  and  a  valley  stretching  away  to  the  south. 
There  is  a  quiet  country  road  winding  away  down  to 
the  village,  and  a  rather  large  open  field  in  front  of 
the  house.  I've  not  yet  been  able  to  explore  the 
neighborhood  much,  owing  to  an  awkward  little  acci- 
dent when  we  first  arrived,  by  which  I  hurt  my 
ankle.  You  see,  it 's  a  Colonial  house,  and  quite 
unspoiled  by  modern  repairs,  although  it  was  touched 
up  slightly  during  Washington's  first  term.  But  you 
scarcely  notice  this,  so  it  remains  a  splendid  example 
of  the  pure  Colonial.  As  I  walked  into  the  parlor 
the  first  morning  the  end  of  one  of  the  floor  boards 
went  down  with  me  and  I  sank  half-way  into  the 
cellar.  You  know  what  an  efficient  woman  Laura  is? 
Well,  she  seized  the  other  end  of  the  board,  which 
had  gone  upf  and  pulled  it  down  and  stepped  on  it. 
Unfortunately,  she  had  the  long  end,  and  she  now 
went  down  and  7  up.  We  both  kept  our  balance 
admirably,  and  had  a  pretty  little  game  of  see-saw. 
Finally,  we  both  jumped  off",  and  she  escaped  unhurt, 


i94    AMERICAN    PROSE  HUMOR 

In  the  Country 

while  the  board  went  down  endwise  into  the 
eighteenth-century  depths  below.  I  expect  to  be  well 
in  a  day  or  two. 

We've  already  got  a  flock  of  chickens  —  quite  a 
large  flock  for  an  amateur,  I  fear.  You  see,  three 
farmers  came,  each  with  a  wagon-load  of  fowls,  and 
I  told  one  of  them  I  would  take  his,  they  being 
white,  and  would  therefore  be  decorative  on  the 
green  grass;  but  there  was  a  misunderstanding  some- 
how, and  the  men  all  dumped  their  birds  out  by  the 
barn,  and  they  got  hopelessly  mixed  up,  so  I  had  to 
take  them  all.  I  think  there's  about  one  hundred  and 
ten  of  them,  though  they  ran  about  a  good  deal  when 
I  counted  them,  and  some  of  them  had  their  heads 
down  fighting  rather  ferociously.  We  expect  quan- 
tities of  eggs,  as  the  hens  are  all  said  to  lay  like 
herrings. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  other  day  that  I  have  a 
commission  to  plan  twenty  cottages  at  Hillkill-on- 
Hudson,  and  that  I  shall  do  most  of  the  work  at 
home,  so  as  to  get  all  the  country  possible.  I  can't 
hope  to  see  you  in  the  city  much  this  summer,  but 
you  and  Henrietta  must  come  up  when  we  get  settled. 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    195 
By  Hayden  Caruth 

I  have  sent  out  a  general  alarm  that  I  want  to  buy  a 
cow.  I  hear  that  cows  are  very  scarce,  and  I  may 
not  be  able  to  get  one,  but  shall  do  my  best.  Have 
also  ordered  some  wood,  and  shall  try  the  splendid 
old  fireplace  to-morrow  if  it 's  chilly,  as  it  bids  fair  to 
be.  Got  three  eggs  to-day. 

Write  to  me  and  give  me  any  advice  which  you 
think  I  may  need.  I  realize  that  I  don't  know  every- 
thing about  country  life.  Laura  sends  love  to  Hen- 
rietta, and  joins  me  in  hoping  that 'you  will  both  come 
up  to  see  us  after  we  get  things  running  smoothly. 
Ever  yours, 

CHESTER. 

II. 

Friday. 

MY  DEAR  BOY. —  That  old  Colonial  fireplace 
worked  charmingly,  only  we  in  our  benighted  twen- 
tieth-century ignorance  did  n't  know  how  to  dispose 
ourselves.  You  see,  the  chimney  is  extraordinarily 
large,  and  Laura  and  I  could  easily  have  got  up  in  it 
and  sat  in  a  hammock  or  something,  where  I  am 
sure  we  should  have  been  warm  and  comfortable, 


196   AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR 

In  the  Country 

and  quite  free  from  smoke.  But  we  were  so  inex- 
perienced as  to  stay  in  the  room,  where  the  smoke 
naturally  came  on  its  way  to  the  windows.  It  was 
quite  absurd  of  us,  and  we  shall  try  the  fireplace  again 
when  we  get  over  coughing. 

I  find  I  am  misinformed  concerning  the  scarcity  of 
cows.  Yesterday  morning  I  was  awakened  by  hollow 
sounds,  and  on  rising  and  looking  out  found  no  less 
than  twelve  men  in  the  square  in  front,  each  holding 
a  cow  by  a  bit  of  rope.  Up  the  road  I  saw  a  cloud 
of  dust  approaching,  which  later  revealed  a  man  on 
horseback  driving  a  bevy  of  eight  cows,  three  of  them 
accompanied  by  small  calves.  The  man's  idea  was 
to  bring  all  he  had  and  let  me  take  my  choice.  I 
went  out,  but  each  man  spoke  so  highly  of  his  animal 
that  I  found  it  difficult  to  make  a  selection.  The 
arrival  of  others  only  added  to  my  perplexity. 
Finally  Laura  came  out  and  settled  the  matter,  very 
cleverly  I  thought.  You  know  how  artistic  she  is 
(she  studied  at  the  League,  you  remember),  and  she 
instantly  said  that  she  would  n't  tolerate  a  cow  about 
the  place  which  did  n't  have  a  crumpled  horn.  So  I 
sent  them  all  off,  and  waved  back  those  that  were 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    197 
By  Hayden  Caruth 

looming  up  in  the  distance,  though  the  man  with  the 
regiment  grumbled  a  good  deal,  saying  that  he  had 
come  ten  miles,  and  that  it  was  too  far  for  a  calf  in 
arms  to  walk,  anyhow,  and  that  he  'd  come  mainly  as 
an  accommodation  to  me,  hearing  as  how  I  wanted  to 
get  hold  of  a  good  cow,  and  cows  being  so  tarnal 
skeerce.  I  finally  gave  him  a  dollar  for  his  time. 
The  men  all  said  they  would  look  up  crumpled-horn 
cows,  though  they  agreed  in  doubting  if  there  was 
one  in  the  county. 

I  am  glad  you  told  me  that  I  ought  to  get  more 
than  three  eggs  a  day  from  a  hundred  hens.  I  knew 
we  needed  more  eggs,  but  I  thought  probably  I  ought 
to  get  more  hens.  I  *ve  no  doubt  they  '11  do  better 
when  they  are  settled.  They  cackle  a  good  deal, 
which  shows  that  their  minds  at  least  are  on  egg 
production.  Your  suggestion  of  china  nest-eggs  seems 
good,  and  I  have  ordered  three  dozen.  One  nest  is 
undeveloped  property,  as  a  large  terra-cotta  colored 
hen  stays  on  it  all  the  time  and  growls  if  I  approach 
her.  She  may  be  a  regular  trust,  and  have  any  num- 
ber of  eggs  under  her.  If  you  know  any  legal  way 
to  oust  her  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me  of  it. 


198  AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

In  the  Country 

We  rather  looked  for  a  crumpled-horn  cow  this 
morning,  but  none  came.  I  'm  half  afraid  we  made 
a  mistake  in  not  taking  a  plain  animal.  Do  you 
know  any  humane  way  to  crumple  a  cow's  horn? 
The  only  man  who  came  this  morning  was  one  with 
a  dog.  I  said,  no,  it  was  a  cow  I  wanted.  Yes, 
yes,  he  said,  so  he  heard — good  dog — glad  I  liked 
it.  It  finally  developed  that  he  was  deaf  as  a  post, 
seventy-six  years  old,  and  that  he  'd  walked  all  the 
way  from  Stamford,  Connecticut,  chiefly  as  an  act  of 
kindness  to  a  new-comer;  so  I  took  the  beast.  Not 
pure  bred,  I  fear,  but  decorative.  We  expected  to 
have  to  advertise  in  the  village  paper  for  a  cat,  but 
somebody  left  a  bagful  of  kittens  on  our  veranda  night 
before  last,  and  two  bagfuls  last  night,  so  we  '11  have 
plenty  when  they  grow  up.  Perhaps  the  owners  lost 
them,  and  Laura  thinks  I  ought  to  advertise  them  as 
estrays.  Are  kittens  considered  valuable  chattels  in 
the  country?  I  hope  that  they  are  not  taxed  if  these 
all  stay. 

Your  suggestion  that  there  was  probably  a  board 
over  the  top  of  the  chimney  was  good.  There  was. 
Poked  it  off  with  a  fishpole,  and  shall  try  another 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    199 
By  Hayden  Caruth 

*ire  to-morrow.  Three  eggs  yesterday  j  two  to-day. 
One  of  the  men  I  got  the  chickens  from  tells  me 
they  are  moulting.  Says  that  after  a  while  they  will 
"  lay  like  fury."  Laura  boiled  nest-eggs  this  morn- 
ing by  mistake.  I  'm  afraid  those  nest-eggs  do  more 
harm  than  good.  The  hens  go  and  look  in  the  nests, 
and  then  turn  round  and  cackle.  They  think  it  fools 
me,  but  it  doesn't.  When  are  you  coming  up? 

Ever  yours, 

CHESTER. 

Ill 

Tuesday. 

DEAR  WILL.  —  I  'm  glad  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances that  that  board  is  off  the  chimney,  but  it  doesn't 
draw  any  better.  This  time,  the  smoke  wouldn't 
even  go  out  of  the  windows,  but  just  wandered  about 
the  house  and  settled  on  things.  Some  of  it  actually 
went  down  cellar.  The  kittens  all  set  up  a  terrible 
sneezing,  and  the  dog  (we  have  named  him  Rip  Van 
Winkle)  jumped  through  a  window-pane.  The  smoke 
was  so  thick  that  I  couldn't  see  how  Laura  got  out, 
but  I  think  she  followed  Rip's  example.  There 
were  two  panes  broken,  anyhow.  But  it  had  one 


200   AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR 

In  the  Country 

good  effect — Laura  doesn't  say  anything  more  about 
my  smoking  in  the  house. 

I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you  the  sequel  of  this,  not 
wanting  to  worry  you  and  Henrietta,  but  I  might  as 
well,  because  you  '11  have  to  know  it  sometime.  The 
smoke  was  so  bad,  and  my  efforts  to  smother  the  fire 
with  an  armful  of  rhubarb  leaves  was  so  unsuccessful, 
that  Laura  and  I  struck  out  for  the  woods  and  went 
flower-hunting  and  bird's-nesting  for  a  couple  of 
hours.  A  passerby  thought  the  house  was  on  fire  and 
ran  to  the  village  and  gave  the  alarm. 

Unfortunately,  there's  a  fire  company  with  a  new 
engine  (or,  rather,  an  old  one  which  they  have  just 
got,  with  brakes  which  go  up  and  down  —  genuine 
old  Harry  Howard  machine),  and  they  came  out 
pell-mell  and  dropped  their  hose  down  the  well  and 
squirted  absolute  tons  of  water  into  the  upper  win- 
dows, while  volunteers  lugged  out  the  furniture. 
You  can  imagine  how  gently  they  handled  it,  and  how 
good  it  was  for  the  things,  especially  the  books  and 
pictures,  and  my  papers  and  plans.  There  was  one 
ray  of  light,  however  —  Rip  stood  by  the  family,  and 
bit  the  foreman  of  the  engine  company  and  two  of 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    201 

By  Hayden  Caruth 

the  volunteers.  Good  doggie!  I  had  to  pay  damages, 
of  course,  bat  I  didn't  think  them  excessive.  You 
see,  it  will  take  us  some  days  to  get  settled  again,  so 
don't  come  this  week. 

I  must  tell  you  about  the  cow.  We've  got  one. 
When  we  awoke  yesterday  morning  we  saw  three 
men  outside  the  gate  with  a  cow.  She  had  a  beauti- 
fully crumpled  horn,  and  Laura  peeped  through  the 
shutter  and  said  she  would  do.  I  went  right  down 
and  told  them  1  would  take  her.  Then  I  asked  the 
price,  and  they  said  $75.  I  thought  it  pretty  high, 
as  none  of  the  others  had  been  above  $40,  but  the 
men  said  —  well,  I  won't  inflict  what  they  said  on 
you,  as  it  took  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  but  it  amounted 
to  this,  that  she  was  the  only  crumpled-horn  cow  in 
Westchester  County,  and  a  great  prize ;  that  there 
were  plenty  of  rich  nabobs  down  around  White 
Plains  who  would  jump  at  the  chance  to  give  a  hun- 
dred, only  they  (the  present  trio)  hadn't  time  to 
take  her  down,  being  so  busy  with  spring  planting, 
and  this  such  fine  growin'  weather.  So  I  paid  the 
money,  and  they  walked  away  quick  and  rather  ner- 
vously, and  I  saw  eight  or  ten  other  men  come  from 


202    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
In  the  Country 

behind  some  trees  down  the  road  and  join  them. 
Then  I  realized  that  the  whole  crowd  who  came 
previously  had  formed  a  crumpled-horn  cow  syndi- 
cate, and  were  sharing  in  the  profits.  But  I  led  her 
into  the  back  yard,  and  Laura  brought  out  her  paints 
and  began  to  sketch  her.  I  shall  put  her  into  the 
front  elevation  of  all  the  blue  prints  I  make  of  those 
cottages,  instead  of  the  usual  man  with  the  garden 
hose. 

Two  eggs  Saturday  and  nine  to-day.  I  was  startled 
when  I  first  found  the  nine,  thinking  that  somebody  was 
trying  to  play  a  joke  on  us;  then  I  remembered  that 
owing  to  the  excitement  about  the  fire  and  the  cow 
I  had  forgotten  to  gather  them  for  three  days,  so  the 
increase  need  alarm  no  one.  Have  hired  a  man  to  look 
after  the  stock,  which  now  includes  a  pig.  He's  an 
honest  Scandinavian,  with  blue  eyes  (the  man  is),  and 
is  large  and  decorative.  Laura  is  going  to  sketch  him. 
The  pig  squeals  considerably,  which  makes  the  hens 
cackle.  The  country  is  less  quiet  than  I  have  always 
been  led  to  believe.  That  hen  was  sitting.  I  took  her 
off  forcibly,  as  you  advised,  but  she  was  not  the  mag- 
nate I  suspected.  She  had  nothing  but  a  white  door- 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    203 

By  Hayden  Caruth 

knob,  so  I  put  her  back.  I  can't  see  that  she  will  hurt 
it.  Besides,  it  isn't  my  knob.  I  think  she  brought  it 
with  her  —  under  one  wing,  I  suppose.  The  cow  gave 
three  pints  of  milk  last  night  and  two  pints  this  morn- 
ing. Do  you  suppose  she,  too,  is  moulting?  Which  do 
you  advise  that  we  make,  butter  or  cheese?  Don't  you 
think  that  perhaps  the  cow  has  not  yet  arrived  at  her 
best  age?  Ole  looked  at  her  teeth  and  said  she  was 
more  than  fifteen.  It  seems  that  the  dentological  record 
of  the  cow  ceases  at  fifteen.  Come  up  next  week. 
Laura  sends  love  to  Henrietta. 

Ever  yours, 

CHET. 
IV 

MY  DEAR  WILL.  —  I  write  in  great  haste,  and  under 
most  annoying  conditions.  There  were  swallows'  nests 
in  that  chimney.  Ole  tried  to  swab  them  out  from 
the  top,  and  fell  in,  and  came  down  head  first,  bringing 
along  the  nests  and  much  mortar,  and  what  I  fear  were 
highly  improper  remarks  in  his  native  tongue.  When 
we  built  a  fire  the  chimney  drew  magnificently.  I  piled 
on  more  wood.  The  blaze  roared  up  the  flue,  and  the 
draught  threatened  to  draw  Laura  in.  The  next  thing 


zo4    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
Jn  the  Country 

we  knew  the  whole  upper  part  of  the  house  was  ablaze. 
The  fire  company  refused  to  respond,  having  been 
fooled  once,  and  the  house  was  a  total  loss.  Nothing 
left  but  the  cellar,  and  that  full  of  ashes.  Saved  all 
of  our  things  of  value,  however.  Now  living  in  the 
barn.  Kittens  escaped  and  are  with  us.  Rip  got  excited 
again  and  bit  Ole,  who  has  gone  to  his  brother's,  eight 
miles  away,  to  get  a  gun.  Laura  bearing  up  well,  and 
sketching  cow  —  side  view.  Don't  come  next  week. 
Remember  us  to  Henrietta.  Two  eggs  to-day. 

Ever  yours, 
C. 


[Telegram] 

Saturday. 

Ole  returned.  Shot  at  dog;  hit  cow.  Barn  just 
burned  to  ground;  set  by  gun  wad.  Chickens  and 
kittens  escaped.  Wire  course  usually  pursued  in  coun- 
try under  present  circumstances.  One  egg. 

CHESTER. 

When  I  received  this  last  communication  I  saw  my 
duty.  I  must  go  to  him.  I  rushed  away  for  New  York, 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    205 

By  Hayden  Caruth 

and  in  an  hour  was  at  the  station  where  I  must  take  the 
train  to  reach  Chet's  place.  Of  course  I  just  missed 
one  train,  and  found  I  must  wait  an  hour  for  another. 
I  bethought  me  of  Chet's  office  a  few  blocks  away, 
and  decided  to  go  over  and  speak  to  his  business  part- 
ner. But  I  met,  not  the  partner,  but  Chet  himself, 
in  jaunty  summer  suit,  cool  and  unruffled. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed,  "when  did  you 
get  back?" 

"  We  havn't  been  away,"  he  answered,  calmly. 
"  We  changed  our  minds,  and  have  stuck  to  the  flat, 
except  for  one  or  two  trips  to  Coney  Island.  Come  over 
and  have  luncheon  with  us.  I  '11  telephone  Laura." 

"You  heartless  scoundrel !  Then  you  made  all  those 
letters  up,  did  you?  " 

"  Certainly.  One  of  the  clerks  who  lives  up  there 
mailed  them  for  me.  I  thought  you  'd  enjoy  thinking 
we  were  having  the  usual  happy  experiences  incident 
to  a  summer  country  place;  but  you  go  and  get  mad. 
I  see  myself  trying  to  please  you  again!  " 


John  Henry  on 

Butting-In 
By 
George  V.  Hobart 


JOHN  HENRY  ON  BUTTING-IN 

BY   GEORGE   V.    HOBART 

course  if  a  fellow  has  a  lady  friend  that's  a 
dead  swell  looker  he  's  always  anxious  to  grab 
her  by  the  elbow  and  lead  her  in  among  the  rest  of 
the  promenaders. 

I  'm  out  to  wager  two  or  more  seven-dollar  bills 
that  when  it  comes  to  face  and  form  my  lady  friend 
has  the  rest  of  the  bunch  looking  like  the  wall-flowers 
at  a  Choctaw  cotillion. 

She  's  the  flag  from  the  starter. 

She's  the  only  mirror  on  the  mantelpiece — believe 
me! 

I  took  her  down  the  lane  to  one  of  those  swell 
grub  stations  the  other  night  and  since  then  every  time 
I  think  about  it  I  feel  like  getting  up  and  ordering 
myself  out  of  the  room. 

Oh,  scold  me!  scold  me! 

But  I  had  to  do  it. 

When  a  ,  fellow  is  out  buying  his  lady  friend  a 
209 


zio    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

John  Henry  on  Butting-In 

pleasant  evening  and  he  runs  into  a  lot  of  low-fore- 
heads he  has  to  back  up — that 's  all  there  is  to  it. 

It  goes  against  the  grain  to  stand  up  and  introduce 
my  lady  friend  to  every  laborer  in  the  four-flush 
vineyard  who  trails  up  to  the  table  and  gives  me  a 
glad  look. 

It  does  indeed. 

Being  somewhat  of  a  money  hater  myself,  of  course 
I  'm  wise  to  enough  pikers  to  fill  a  plowed  field. 

Just  as  sure  as  I  stride  into  a  fancy  feed-store  with 
nothing  on  my  mind  but  a  desire  to  act  like  a  gentle- 
man and  buy  hot  cookies  for  the  Best  and  Only  I  'm 
doomed  to  meet  a  bunch  of  saw-dust  sports  who  want 
to  leave  their  own  tables  and  associate  with  me. 

Of  course  they  only  do  it  just  because  they  have 
elastic  in  their  necks. 

They  expect  an  introduction  to  the  Beautiful  Girl 
and  after  getting  it  the  've  figured  it  out  to  hand  her 
a  line  of  conversation  that  will  charm  her  to  a  stand- 
still and  make  the  Man  she  's  With  look  like  a  dried 
apple. 

And  every  mother's  son  of  them  talks  like  he'd 
been  struck  in  the  grammar  by  a  ferryboat. 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR     211 

By  George  V.  Hobart 

Anyway,  I  took  my  lady  friend  to  a  sumptuous 
soup-house  the  other  evening  for  dinner.  I've  just 
ordered  four  dollars'  worth  off  the  card  and  we  're 
sitting  there  in  the  hand-painted  beanery  chatting 
pleasantly  and  waiting  for  the  longshoremen  to  journey 
back  with  the  oysters. 

Up  to  our  table  comes  Abie  Sluiceberger. 

Abie  has  a  great  pull  all  along  the  line  because  the 
picture  of  an  uncle  of  his  hung  in  the  Hall  of  Fame 
for  nearly  an  hour  before  the  janitor  got  onto  it  and 
threw  it  out. 

Abie  puts  a  hand  on  each  corner  of  the  table  and 
leans  over  with  all  the  grace  peculiar  to  a  soft  shell 
crab. 

"Hello,  John  Henry!"  says  Abie. 

I  bow  and  give  him  a  Klondike  grin,  but  he  ducks 
and  comes  up  happy. 

"Eatin'?"  inquires  Abie. 

"  No,  Abie,"  I  answered,  just  to  put  him  wise  to 
the  fact  that  a  swift  walkaway  would  do  us  all  good, 
"no,  we  're  not  eating.  We  just  dropped  in  to  play 
a  few  hands  of  bridge  whist  with  the  waiter  and  he  's 
gone  to  get  a  deck  of  cards.  We  never  come  into  a 


2i2   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
John  Henry  on  Butting-In 

restaurant  to  eat.  Usually  we  drop  in  during  the 
rush  hours  and  help  the  proprietor  peel  the  oysters. 
On  this  occasion,  however,  we  're  out  for  a  dickens 
of  a  spree  so  we  've  decided  to  play  bridge  with  the 
waiter." 

"Quit  your  joshin',  John  Henry!"  says  Abie; 
"You  're  gettin'  to  be  a  worse  kidder  than  Bill  Mc- 
Connell!" 

Then  Abie  pushes  a  lovely  smile  over  in  the  direc- 
tion of  my  lady  friend,  but  it  doesn't  land  because 
she  's  busy  behind  the  bill  of  fare. 

After  while  Abie  notices  that  it's  up  to  him  to 
fondle  a  fierce  frost,  so  he  backs  out. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  inquires  Clara  Jane,  after 
Abie  has  moseyed  away. 

Now,  you  know,  a  fellow  can't  confess  to  the 
Original  Package  of  Sweetness  that  he  's  entered  in 
the  same  race  with  a  lot  of  $3  goats. 

On  the  level,  now,  can  he? 

It  was  my  cue  to  make  a  Big  Play. 

I  had  to  get  gabby  and  make  Clara  Jane  believe  ] 
associated  only  with  Torrid  Tamales. 

And  did  I? 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    213 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

Oh,  ask  me  easy  just  to  tease  me! 

"Who!  that?"  I  says,  after  I  fished  for  a  few 
French-fried  potatoes;  "  Why,  that's  Lord  Hope." 

My  lady  friend  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  and 
gave  me  the  startled  gaze. 

I  never  whimpered. 

Oh,  scold  me!  scold  me! 

"  Lord  Hope,"  says  she.  "  Why,  John  Henry, 
you  never  told  me  you  knew  Lord  Hope!  " 

"Didn't  I?"  I  says;  "my,  my,  how  thought- 
less! Well,  that's  his  Lordship  all  right,  all 
right!" 

Clara  Jane  thought  a  while,  and  I  carved  my 
initials  on  a  sliver  of  celery. 

"But  you  called  him  Abie!"  says  she,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Sure  thing!  "  I  says;  "  What  else?  Want  me  to 
call  him  Mose,  or  Rosey,  or  Meyer,  or  Ikey?  He's 
not  Irish." 

"  I  can't  imagine  an  English  nobleman  being 
called  Abie,"  says  my  lady  friend,  for  she's  a  first- 
rate  Believer  by  nature,  but  a  Doubter  when  the  dice 
roll  heavy. 


214   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

John  Henry  on  Butting-In 

I  was  beginning  to  feel  just  about  as  happy  as  a 
hard-boiled  egg,  but  I  was  in  up  to  my  neck  and 
I  couldn't  holler  for  help. 

"Englishmen  have  queer  names,  especially  noble- 
men. Say,  won't  you  have  a  charlotte  russe  or  an 
apple  fritter?  —  It'll  do  you  good  !"  I  says,  hoping 
to  swing  the  conversation  close  enough  to  the  shore 
so  that  I  could  jump  off  and  take  to  the  timber. 

But  she  wouldn't  let  go. 

"Abie,  Abie  !"  says  my  lady  friend  to  herself; 
"Abie  Hope!  that  sounds  queer.  You  must  know 
him  pretty  well  to  call  him  Abie  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  we  went  to  school  together,"  I  says. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  to  bite  into  a  portion  of  pie 
just  by  the  way  of  no  harm?  " 

"Why,  John  Henry!"  says  Clara  Jane,  giving 
me  the  glassy  stare;  "and  you've  always  told,  me 
you  went  to  school  in  Communipaw!  " 

My  finish  was  ringing  the  door-bell. 
Just  then  Mike  McGuire  strolled  into  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  wanted  to  hang  up  his  hat  on  my  hook. 

Mike  is  another  Lad  with  a  Feeble  Forehead,  and 
when  he  's  not  pounding  the  pave  in  front  of  Booze 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR    215 

By  George  V.  Hobart 

Bazaar,  he  's  acting  as  second  assistant  engineer  in  a 
pool-room. 

Once  in  a  while  Mike  breaks  into  a  theater  and 
tries  to  act  until  some  one  catches  him  with  the  goods. 
Then  he  apologizes,  backs  out  of  his  harness,  and  is 
up  and  away  to  the  swamps. 

"Good  evening,"  says  Mike,  pushing  out  the 
familiar  fist. 

I  'm  right  back  at  him  with  a  short-arm  nod  of 
recognition,  and  in  a  minute  I  'm  busy  with  my 
beans. 

"Feedin',  I  see!"  says  Mike,  wishing  to  show 
my  lady  friend  that  his  powers  of  observation  are 
strictly  home-made. 

I  gave  him  a  look  that  I  figured  would  comb  his 
hair,  but  he's  out  to  make  a  deep  impression  on 
Clara  Jane,  so  my  haughty  expression  didn't  finish 
one,  two,  three. 

Before  I  can  get  back  from  the  breakaway,  I  find 
him  reciting  the  sad  story  of  his  life,  and  watching 
my  lady  friend  to  see  if  she  enjoys  light  literature. 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  McGuire,  "I  do  so  love  the 
stage.  I've  been  playing  the  Provinces  for  eighteen 


2i6   AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
John  Henry  on  Butting-In 

weeks  as  Hotspur,  the  Boy  Hero,  in  Ben  Hur,  and  I 
was  the  hit  of  the  show! " 

Wouldn't  that  upset  your  box  office? 

Him  the  hit  of  the  show! 

Why,  if  applause  was  selling  for  two  cents  a  ton, 
his  ability  couldn't  get  a  handful. 

Two  to  one  he  was  out  doing  the  potato  plantations 
with  a  No.  63  Unc.  Tom's  Cab.  Co. 

About  all  that  guy  could  mix  with  is  a  parcel 
of  Uncle  Tommers. 

Finally,  after  writing  about  four  chapters,  and  get- 
ting his  life  lines  crossed  with  George  Washington, 
Manny  Friend,  John  McCullough,  and  Tod  Sloane, 
he  begins  to  notice  that  the  wind  is  blowing  chill 
across  the  wild  moor,  so  he  signals  the  conductor  and 
hops  off  the  wagon. 

"Who  was  that?"  inquires  my  lady  friend,  as 
McGuire  ambles  back  to  his  own  table. 

"That?"  I  says;  "Oh!  that  was  the  Earl  of 
Yarmouth." 

Clara  Jane  handed  me  a  swift  glance,  then  she 
patted  her  hat  pins  and  grabbed  her  gloves. 

"Come  along,  John  Henry,"  says  she,  "King 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR   217 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

Edward  will  be  here  in  a  minute,  and  after  what 
I  've  read  about  him  I  don't  think  I  care  to  meet  him. 
Let 's  go  home." 

She  wins  in  a  whiper. 

It'll  take  three  weeks  to  square  myself. 

Hereafter,  me  to  Dennett's.  Me  to  the  stack  o' 
wheats  symposium  where  the  rest  of  the  entries  stick 
to  their  stalls.  Where  the  outside  conversation  is 
confined  to  "Draw one!"  and  "Boil  two,  meejum." 

No  more  swell  Sandwich  Saloons  for  me,  where 
the  grafters  want  to  butt  in  all  the  while. 

Oh,  scold  me!  scold  me! 


Mr.    and  Mrs.   Dinkelspiel 
Discuss  Literary  Matters 
By 
George  V.  Hobart 


MR.  AND  MRS.  DINKELSPIEL 

DISCUSS  LITERARY 

MATTERS 

BY  GEORGE  V.  HOBART 

T  IDERATURE  und  milk  dey  vas  a  resemblance 
•*— '  to  each  udder  dese  days  because  skience  has 
discofered  how  to  condensation  dem  both. 

Some  uf  dem  liberaries  vere  dey  haf  condensationed 
der  history  uf  efery  ding  unter  der  sun  into  abouid  fifty 
larche  wolumes  has  a  gread  attractionment  for  me. 

Ven  der  colt  vinter  efenings  come,  und  der  bloozard 
is  making  some  blizzings  mit  der  snow-storm  on  der 
ouidside,  id  pleasures  me  to  tuk  vun  uf  dem  wol- 
umes down  und  sid  in  my  easiness  chair.  Dey  vas 
chenerally  so  heavy  dot  id  makes  a  goot  oxcoos  to 
drob  dem  on  der  floor  und  vent  to  sleep. 

Vunce  I  bought  vun  uf  dem  circulation  liberaries 
vare  you  pay  fifty  cents  a  day  down  und  vun  tollar  a 
veek,  und  after  you  pay  sigs  tollars  a  month  in  two 
years  id  is  yours  uf  you  can  find  der  receipts. 
221 


222    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dinkelspiel  Discuss  Literary   Matters 

Der  vun  I  bought  on  der  distillment  plan  id  is 
called  "  Men  Vot  Haf  Made  Famousness  in  der 
Vorld." 

I  vanted  to  see  uf  a  friend  uf  mine  by  der  name  uf 
Soopnoodle  vas  inclusioned  among  der  men  vot  haf 
made  famousness,  bud  der  mens  vot  authored  der  book 
oferlooked  him. 

Und  Soopnoodle  is  such  a  famousness  ! 

He  is  vun  uf  der  men  vot  intentioned  to  help 
Chorge  Dewey  vin  der  baddle  uf  Manila,  but  he 
hat  to  stay  home  because  he  forgot  to  enlist  in  der 
navy. 

Any  vay,  I  decisioned  to  gif  Katarina,  vich  she  is 
my  vedded  vife,  a  liderary  feastings,  so  I  pud  my  pipe 
on  der  table  und  I  set  py  her,  "  Katarina,  draw  your 
chair  ub  py  der  fireside  uf  der  gas  stofe  und  I  vill 
make  some  readings  to  you  auid  uf  our  liberary." 

"I  vill  be  delightfulled  ! "  set  Katarina,  moofing 
her  chair  arount  so  dot  she  could  rest  id  on  der  cat 
py  accident. 

"Are  you  particulerity  abouid  vot  period  uf  history 
I  read  abouid?"  I  set,  gedding  vun  uf  der  wolumes 
down. 


AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR     223 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

"Mien,"  set  Katarina;  "bud  I  vould  preferation 
dot  der  historicals  is  abouid  Mrs.  Binglespitz,  vich 
she  lifts  next  door.  She  began  to  take  singing  lessons 
on  her  voice  a  veek  ago,  und  nobody  knows  vy  her 
husband  left  her  der  next  day." 

"Veil,"  I  set,  "I  doan'd  dink  Mrs.  Binglespitz 
is  mentioned  in  among  der  '  Men  Vot  Haf  Made 
Famousness,'  bud  uf  she  is  taking  singing  lessons  on 
her  voice  I  dink  ve  could  find  her  husband's  name  in 
annuder  liberary  vich  id  is  called  '  Men  Vot  Haf 
Made  Chackasscs  uf  Demselfs  py  Marriageing. ' 
Now,  led  us  procedure  mit  der  fairst  name  in  der 
fairst  wolume  uf  dis  liberary  vich  ve  haf.  Der  fairst 
name  he  is  a  fellow  called  Abelard.  Dis  Abelard  he 
vas  a  Frenchman,  und  he  is  der  only  vun  in  der 
book  vot  beliefed  dot  Captain  Dreyfuss  vas  nod  as 
guilty  as  he  looked." 

"Could  id  be  so?"  set  Katarina,  showing  gread 
excitement. 

"Ja,"  I  set;  "dis  fellow  Abelard  died  before  der 
udder  Frenchmen  built  der  factory  vare  dey  made  der 
secret  dossiers  und  bordereaus  und  retty-made  sissages, 
und  dings  like  dot.  Abelard  he  vas — '' 


224   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 

Mr.  and   Mrs.  Dinkelspiel  Discuss   Literary  Matters 

"  Vait !  "  set  Katarina  ;  "is  his  name  Heinrich 
Abelard  ?  Vunce  I  knowed  a  family  ofer  on  Fairst 
Afenue  vich  der  name  sounded  somedings  like  dot. 
I  dink  vot  his  name  vas  Heinrich.  Dey  alvays  men- 
tioned him  Heiney  for  shortness." 

"Katarina,"  I  set,  "  uf  you  blease,  doan'd  make 
craziness  mit  your  head.  Ve  haf  vent  avay  back  to 
der  year  1079,  und  at  dot  dime  Fairst  Afenue  hat  nod 
been  discoferied  py  Chrisduffer  Columpus  before  he 
vent  to  Ohio.  Veil,  led  us  resumption.  Id  is  a  piti- 
less story,  der  story  abouid  Abelard  is,  yes.  Now, 
ad  der  dime  I  mention  he — " 

"Vait!"  set  Katarina;  "vas  he  killed  in  der 
Spinnish  var  mit  Hopson  und  Cheneral  Eagan  ad  der 
baddle  uf  Sandy  Dago  ? ' ' 

"  To  me  id  is  a  vunder  how  so  much  blank  space 
vas  efer  crowded  into  such  a  leedle  head  vot  you  haf, 
Katarina!  "  I  set,  losing  der  end  uf  my  temper  vare  I 
vas  holding  id.  "  Vot  is  der  use  to  haf  a  fine  liberary 
like  dis  locked  ub  in  der  bookcase  ven  you  display  so 
much  ignoramussness  ?  Abelard  he  vas  nod  a  chentle- 
mans,  he  vas  a  Frenchman  vot  luffed  a  voman  mit  a 
devouringness  uf  passion  vich  gafe  him  der  indichestion 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    225 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

on  account  uf  der  vay  his  heart  vent  piddy-pad  ven  he 
made  thinkings  aboud  der  voman  vot  took  his  abbetite 
avay  so  dot  he  could  nod  sleeb  ad  night." 

"Veil,"  set  Katarina,  "  uf  he  kissed  her,  dare 
is  der  same  similarities  between  him  und  Hopson, 
ain'did?" 

"For  a  voman  uf  your  visdom  you  haf  more  fool- 
ishness den  any  vot  I  know,  Katarina ! "  I  set. 
"  Now  lisden  py  me  und  I  vill  relation  der  story  uf 
Abelard  py  you,  yet.  Abelard  he  vas  in  luff  mit  a 
girl  vich  her  front  name  vas  Hellolouise.  Abelard 
luffed  Hellolouise,  und  Hellolouise  luffed  Abelard  mit 
a  vunderful  devotionings.  Veil,  yust  abouid  dis  dime 
id  —  ' 

"  Dot  name  uf  Hellolouise  id  is  a  familiarity  to 
me,"  set  Katarina.  "  I  vunder  vas  she  der  young 
lady  vot  wisited  mit  der  Goobledickers  last  summer? 
I  alvays  thought  dare  vas  a  sad  story  in  dot  girl's 
history." 

"  In  order  to  make  some  appreciating  uf  a  liberary 
uf  dis  kind,  Katarina,"  I  set,  "id  is  fairst  necesserary 
to  obtain  some  sensefulness  in  your  head  to  make 
unterstanting  uf  vot  id  is  talking  abouid.  Uf  you 


226    AMERICAN    PROSE  HUMOR 

Mr.  and   Mrs.  Dinkelspiel  Discuss  Literary  Matters 

blease,  recollection  dot.  Veil,  now,  let  us  continu- 
ation. Come  mit  me  pack  to  der  year  abouid  1 100 
und  leave  der  Goobledickers  vare  are  dey.  Veil,  ad 
der  dime  uf  vich  ve  make  mentionings  der  vorld  id  is 
full  mit  chenerations  as  yet  unborn.  Eferyding  is  in 
darkness.  Der  electricsissity  light  haf  nod  been 
inwented  because  der  only  man  vot  could  make  der 
inwention  he  nefer  thought  uf  id.  Der  trolley  cars 
vas  nod  running  because  dere  vas  no  childrens  playing 
in  der  streets  to  run  into.  Veil,  unter  such  distress- 
fulness  circusstances  as  dis,  Abelard  met  Hellolouise 
ouid  valking  vun  day  on  der  Bois  de  Bologney. 

"'Gutcn  Morgen!'  set  Abelard,  raising  his  hat 
mit  a  politefulness. 

<"  Wie  gehts!'  set  Hellolouise,  also  mit  a  polite- 
fulness. 

"  '  I  haf  nefer  hat  der  delightfulness  uf  meeting  mit 
you  pefore  ! '  set  Abelard,  '  und  I  am  oferchoyed  to 
see  you  so  unexpectantly ! ' 

"  Hellolouise  blushed  mit  a  rosiness. 

"'Unter  der  circusstances,'  set  Abelard,  'I  feel 
compulsory  to  ask  you  to  be  my  vife,  uf  you 
blease!' 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    227 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

"<Dis  is  so  suttent,'  set  Hellolouise;  <und  dare- 
fore  I  cannod  make  up  my  mind  to  refusal  you! ' 

"  Und  so  dey  vas  marriaged  righd  avay  in  abouid 
two  or —  " 

"  Vait !"  set  Katarina  ;  "dit  dey  vent  to  Niakara 
Falls  by  deir  vedding  trib  ? ' ' 

"  Ad  der  dime  uf  vich  vc  are  sbeaking,  Katarina," 
I  set,  "  Niakara  vas  nod  in  der  vedding-trib  pitzness. 
Uf  you  vant  to  make  craziness  mit  your  thoughts,  do 
so,  yes!  But  doan't  led  your  foolishness  ged  avay 
from  you  mit  der  vords  vich  you  utility.  Now 
remain  silence  und  I  vill  remove  more  uf  dis  story 
from  der  history.  Veil,  after  Abelard  and  Hello- 
louise dey  vos  marriaged  —  ' ' 

"  Vas  id  a  church  vedding,  und  vot  did  she  vear  ?" 
set  Katarina. 

"  Vot  is  der  difference  did  she  vear  welwet  or 
chiffon  ofer  a  pumpadoor  shirt  vaist?"  I  set.  "Dot 
is  yust  like  a  voman.  Der  moment  a  man  says  a 
vord  abouid  a  vedding  der  voman  alvays  says,  '  Vot 
did  she  vear  ? '  Vot  a  risdickillussness  id  is.  Veil, 
anyhow,  abouid  der  story.  Ven  Abelard  und  Hello- 
louise dey  vas  marriaged  a  chentlemans  vich  he  vas  a 


228    AMERICAN   PROSE  HUMOR 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dinkelspiel  Discuss  Literary   Matters 

scoundrel  by  birth  und  also  der  uncle  uf  Abelard  he 
vent  und  separationed  dese  two  luffers,  und  —  " 

"Vait!"  set  Katarina;  "vas  dis  uncle  a  lawyer 
in  Chicago  ? ' ' 

"  Vot  a  luffly  dime  ve  vould  haf,  Katarina,"  I  set, 
"uf  you  vould  only  poison  your  thoughts  und  kill 
dem  before  you  sbeak  dem!  Now,  vy  should  you 
make  such  a  question  ad  me  ? " 

"Veil,"  set  Katarina,  "der  only  place  I  know 
vare  peoples  ged  such  a  quick  separationing  from  der 
marriage  ceremonials  is  in  Chicago." 

"Some  dime,"  I  set,  "ven  you  can  tie  a  string 
arount  der  craziness  vich  is  in  your  head,  Katarina, 
and  keeb  id  dare  midouid  sbeaking  abouid  id,  ve  vill 
resumption  dis  story.  For  der  bresent  I  dink  id  vill 
be  bedder  to  pud  dis  liberary  back  on  der  shelf  so  dot 
der  dust  vill  haf  a  nice  place  to  seddle.  Und,  uf  you 
vill  oxccos  me,  I  vill  vent  down  to  Soopnoodle's  und 
play  a  cubble  uf  games  uf  pinochle." 

Liderature  is  a  splentit  ding  to  haf  a  knowledge  uf, 
bud  sometimes  a  ignorance  uf  id  makes  less  noise  in 
der  family,  yes. 


Dinkelspiel  Explains 

the  Dreyfus  Case 
By 
George  V.  Hobart 


DINKELSPIEL    EXPLAINS    THE 
DREYFUS   CASE 

BY  GEORGE  V.  HOBART 

IHAF  yust  been  gonversationing  mit  my  vife,  vich 
she  is  Katarina,  abouid  der  tobies  uf  der  day, 
vich  she  is  nod  familiaridy  mit  like  me,  yet. 

Ach,  Himmel !  dem  vimmens !  dem  vimmens  !  how 
dey  vill  make  gonversationings  mit  der  woices  abouid 
dings  dey  doan'd  know  vot  am  I  dalking  abouid  ! 

Veil,  anyhow,  Katarina  she  set  py  me,  "  Died- 
erich,  if  you  blease,  make  some  exblaination  ad  me 
abouid  der  Driffus  case  vich  id  vas  orichinally  a  natif 
uf  France,  und  is  now  trafelling  all  ofer  der  vorld. 
Vy  dit  Driffus  hit  dot  fellow  Bordereau  ofer  der  head 
mit  a  stuffed  clup,  und  vy  dit  Driffus  gif  dot  fellow 
Dossier  some  Chim  Cheffries  punches  below  der  belt 
ven  he  vas  nod  looging?" 

"Katarina,"  I  set,  "der  vay  you  vas  tvisted 
abouid  dis  madder  is  der  vorst  mixing  ub  vot  I  efer 
saw  any  vun  raddled  abouid.  Der  Driffus  case  id  is 
231 


232   AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Dinkelspiel  Explains  the  Dreyfus  Case 

der  mosd  simblicidy  case  vot  id  is  possibilidy  to  be. 
Id  is  so  blain  und  so  simblicidy  dot  efery  man,  vim- 
men,  und  children  in  der  Union  Sdades  understants 
id  in  a  different  vay.  Now,  uf  you  blease,  Kata- 
rina,  made  some  attention  ad  me  und  I  vill  exblaina- 
fion  der  whole  madder  : 

"  Vun  day  abouid  seferal  years  ago  Driffus,  he  vas 
valking  down  der  Rue  de  Bologna  und  he  med  ub 
mit  a  fellow  py  der  name  uf  Leedleneck  Clams. 
Driffus  he  vas  der  Cabdain  uf  Combany  A,  National 
Guard  uf  der  Sdade  uf  New  Chersey,  und  Leedle- 
neck Clams  he  vas  der  Fairst  Lefftenem  uf  Combany 
B,  National  Guard,  uf  der  Sdade  uf  Merrylant. 
Dare  alvays  vas  a  gread  rivalness  bedween  dem. 

<"Wie  gehts  !'  set  Driffus  to  Leedleneck  Clams; 
'vill  you  choin  me  mit  a  absent  frippy,  vunce, 
yet?' 

"'How  dare  you  set  vot  you  set  to  me?'  set 
Lefftenem  Leedleneck  Clams,  gedding  ret  in  der  front 
bart  uf  his  face. 

" '  Vot  dit  I  set  vich  I  should  not  haf  set  ven  I  set 
id?'  set  Driffus,  getting  retty  to  fighd  a  duel. 

'"You  set,   "Wie  gehts!"    sir,   dot  is  vot  you 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    233 
By  George  V.  Hobart 

set,  und  I  belief  dere  is  some  treasonableness  behind 
id,'  set  Leedleneck  Clams.  'I  haf  a  suspiciousness 
dot  der  vords  vich  you  set  dey  vas  Cherman,  und  I 
vill  sbeak  abouid  id  to  a  cubble  uf  goot  liars  vot  I 
know,  und  perhaps  ve  can  separation  you  from  your 
chob,  yes.' 

"Den  Lefftenem  Leedleneck  Clams  valked  off 
down  der  Rue,  und  Cabdain  Driffus  vent  in  Bauer- 
schmidt's  und  took  his  absent  frippy  mit  himself. 

"In  abouid  two  veeks  a  debudy  cheriff  valked  ub 
to  Cabdain  Driffus,  und  he  set :  '  Oxcoos  me,  Cab- 
dain, bud  I  vill  haf  to  pinch  you,  yet.  Come  mit 
me  down  to  der  Cendral,  uf  you  blease  ! ' 

"  Der  debudy  cheriff  he  took  Cabdain  Driffus  ub 
before  der  Sergeant.  Der  Sergeant  his  name  vas 
Smeltzer.  Smeltzer's  fairst  vife  vas  a  cousin  to  der 
Poofnickles  vot  liff  on  Second  Afenue. 

'"You  are  guildy,  Cabdain;  vot  d;t  you  dit  ?'  set 
der  Sergeant. 

'"I  don'd  know  vot  dit  I  dit,  bud  I  vill  pay  der 
fine  uf  you  neet  der  money,'  set  der  Cabdain. 

"  Und  yust  den  eighdy-nine  Chenerals  uf  der 
Rekular  Army  und  forty-sefen  Colonels  und  der  Min- 


234   AMERICAN    PROSE    HUMOR 
Dinkelspiel  Explains  the  Dreyfus  Case 

ster  uf  der  Var  und  his  whole  family  valked  into  dcr 
station  house. 

'"I  vant  to  haf  fair  play  here,'  set  der  Minister 
uf  der  Var,  'und,  darefore,  I  belief  dis  man  to  be 
guildy  no  madder  vedder  dit  he  dit  anyding  or  nod. 
Uf  you  blease,  Sergeant,  sendence  dis  man  to  der 
resd  uf  his  lifedime  in  chail.  I  haf  an  encagement 
to  go  ouid  on  der  guff-links  und  blay  some  guff  dis 
afdernoon,  but  perhabs  abouid  nexd  Friday  or  Skit- 
terday  afdernoon  I  vill  loog  ofer  der  efidence  to 
see  how  much  is  he  guildy.  Aus  mit  him  !  Aus 
mit  him  ! ' 

'«  Und  den  der  eighdy-nine  Chenerals  und  der 
forty-sefen  Colonels  dey  chumped  ub  in  der  air  und 
dey  cricked  deir  heels  togedder,  und  dey  set :  '  Vive 
le  France  !  To  der  dok-catchers  mit  Driffus  !  A  bas 
Driffus  a  cubble  uf  dimes,  also  ! ' 

"  Und  den  Leedleneck  Clams  poked  his  head 
py  der  door  in,  und  he  set,  'Now  vill  you  set 
"  Wie  gehts  !"  to  me  any  more,  alretty,  ver?  I  do 
nod  comprehension  vot  id  is  you  mean  ven  you 
set  it?' 

"Und  den  der  Sergeant  ad  der  Cendral  he  sendenced 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    235 

By  George  V.  Hobart 

Cabdain  DrifFus  to  sbend  der  resd  uf  his  nadural  life- 
dime  on  an  island  in  der  South,  vare  der  deifel  geds 
his  hot  air  to  varm  ub  his  recebtion -rooms. 

"  Vun  day,  afder  Cabdain  Driffus  vas  perspiration- 
ing  for  abouid  seferal  months  on  der  island,  vich  der 
French  borrowed  from  der  deifel,  der  Minister  uf  der 
Var  voke  ub. 

"'Ach,  Himmel!'  set  der  Minister  uf  der  Var 
to  der  office  boy;  'I  haf  made  a  awful  misdake.  Run 
ouid  und  dell  der  Chenerals  uf  der  Army  und  der 
Colonels  to  come  here  righd  avay  qvick ! ' 

"Zwei  hunnert  und  fifdy-sefen  Chenerals  und  drei 
t'ousand  Colonels  rushed  ub  der  sdairs.  'Ach,  Him- 
mel!' set  der  Minister  uf  der  Var,  «  vot  a  misdake! 
Vot  a  awful  misdake !  Vot  a  awful  misdake !  Vot  a  mis- 
dake abouid  Driffus ! ' 

'"Vot  id  is?'  set  all  der  Chenerals  und  der 
Colonels. 

"Der  vet  veepings  vas  running  down  der  face  uf  der 
Minister  uf  der  Var.  'How  could  ve  haf  made  such 
a  misdake?' he  exclamationed.  'Id  is  awfulness!  I  vill 
never  fergif  you  for  doing  vot  I  dit! ' 

"  '  Vich  vay  vill  ve  yell?  '  set  one  uf  der  Chenerals. 


236    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 

Dinkelspiel  Explains  the  Dreyfus  Case 

'Ve  vant  to  make  an  a  has  und  ve  doan'd  know  vich 
vay  to  make  id.' 

"  '  Ach,  Himmel ! '  set  der  Minister  uf  der  Var, 
«  chustice  musd  be  done,  even  uf  der  heavens  fall  ouid. 
Ve  haf  mate  a  awful  misdake;  darefore,  led  us  rectifi- 
cation id  ad  vunce.  Ven  ve  sendenced  Cabdain  Driffus 
to  his  lifedime  ve  forgot  to  fine  him  anydings.  He  may 
haf  money,  berhaps.  Ve  haf  oferlooked  some  bettings. 
Chustice,  efen  uf  der  heavens  fall  ouid!  Led  us  pring 
him  pack  from  der  Deifel's  Island  und  fine  him  a  cubble 
uf  million  francs,  uf  he  has  id.' 

"'Vive  le  France!'  set  der  Chenerals  und  der 
Colonels,  und  den  dey  all  rushed  down  py  der 
dellygrafF  office  und  sent  a  collect  message  to  Cab- 
dain Driffus  to  come  home  on  der  nexd  sdeamer, 
vich  he  dit. 

"Und  dare  he  is  now  down  ad  der  Cendral  before 
Sergeant  Smeltzer  und  der  Minister  uf  der  Var,  und  all 
der  Chenerals  und  der  Colonels  dey  are  trying  to 
proof  dot  he  haf  zwei  hunnert  und  ninedeen  tollars 
in  a  building  und  loan  assisiation,  vich  dey  need  in 
deir  pitzness." 

"Veil,"  set  Katarina,  "dot  is  fery  blain  und  sim- 


AMERICAN   PROSE   HUMOR    237 

By  George  V.  Hobart 

blicity,  bud  vot  dit  Cabdain  Driffus  dit  ven  he  is  nod 
guildy  uf  ditting  id?" 

Ach,  Himmel!    Vimmens  is  der  deifel  for  sbeaking 
der  foolish  vords  vich  is  in  deir  woices,  ain'd  id? 


At  the  Opera 

By 

Billy  Baxter 

(William  J.  Kountz,  Jr. 


AT  THE  OPERA 

BY  BILLY  BAXTER 

( William  J.  Kountz,  Jr.) 

T  WAS  over  in  New  York  with  the  family  last  win- 
•1  ter  and  they  made  me  go  with  them  to  "  Die 
Walkiire  "  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  When 
I  got  the  tickets  I  asked  the  man's  advice  as  to  the 
best  location.  He  said  that  all  true  lovers  of  music 
occupied  the  dress  circle  and  balconies,  and  that  he 
had  some  good  center  dress  circle  seats  at  three  bones 
per.  Here  's  a  tip,  Jim.  If  the  box  man  ever  hands 
you  that  true  lover  game,  just  reach  in  through  the 
little  hole  and  soak  him  in  the  solar  for  me.  It  's 
coming  to  him.  I  '11  give  you  my  word  of  honor  we 
were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  stage.  We  went 
up  in  an  elevator,  were  shown  to  our  seats,  and  who 
was  right  behind  us  but  my  old  pal  Bud  Hathaway 
from  Chicago.  Bud  had  his  two  sisters  with  him, 
and  he  gave  me  one  sad  look  which  said  plainer  than 
words,  "So  you  're  up  against  it  too,  eh!"  We  in- 
341 


z42    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
At  the  Opera 

troduced  all  hands  around,  and  about  nine  o'clock  the 
curtain  went  up.  After  we  had  waited  fully  ten 
minutes,  out  came  a  big,  fat,  greasy  looking  Dago 
with  nothing  on  but  a  bear  robe.  He  went  over  to 
the  side  of  the  stage,  and  sat  down  on  a  bum  rock. 
It  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  even  from  my  true  lover's 
seat,  that  his  bearlets  was  sorer  than  a  dog  about 
something.  Presently  in  came  a  woman,  and  none 
of  the  true  lovers  seemed  to  know  who  she  was. 
Some  said  it  was  Melba,  others  Nordica.  Bud  and 
I  decided  it  was  May  Irwin.  We  were  mistaken 
though,  as  Irwin  has  this  woman  lashed  to  the  mast 
at  any  time  or  place.  As  soon  as  Mike  the  Dago 
espied  the  dame  it  was  all  off.  He  rushed,  and 
drove  a  straight-arm  jab,  which  had  it  reached  would 
have  given  him  the  purse.  But  Shifty  Sadie  was  n't 
there.  She  ducked,  side  stepped,  and  landed  a  clever 
half-arm  hook  which  seemed  to  stun  the  big  fellow. 
They  clinched,  and  swayed  back  and  forth,  growling 
continually,  while  the  orchestra  played  this  trembly 
Eliza-crossing-the-ice  music.  Jim,  I  'm  not  swelling 
this  a  bit.  On  the  level  it  happened  just  as  I  write 
it.  All  of  a  sudden  some  one  seemed  to  win.  They 
broke  away,  and  ran  wildly  to  the  front  of  the  stage 


AMERICAN   PROSE    HUMOR    243 
By  Billy  Baxter 

with  their  arms  outstretched,  yelling  to  beat  three  of 
a  kind.  The  band  cut  loose  something  fierce.  The 
leader  tore  out  about  $9.00  worth  of  hair,  and  acted 
generally  as  though  he  had  bats  in  his  belfry.  I 
thought  sure  the  place  would  be  pinched.  It  reminded 
me  of  Thirsty  Thornton's  dance  hall  out  in  Merrill, 
Wisconsin,  when  The  Silent  Swede  used  to  start  a 
general  survival  of  the  fittest,  every  time  Mamie  the 
Mink  danced  twice  in  succession  with  the  young 
fellow  from  Albany,  whose  father  owned  the  big  mill 
up  Rough  River.  Of  course  this  audience  was  per- 
fectly orderly  and  showed  no  intention  whatever  oj 
cutting  in,  and  there  were  no  chairs,  or  glasses  in  the 
air,  but  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  the  opera  had 
Thornton's  faded  for  noise.  I  asked  Bud  what  the 
trouble  was,  and  he  answered  that  I  could  search  him. 
The  audience  apparently  went  wild.  Everybody 
said  "  Simply  sublime !"  "Isn't  it  grand  ?"  "Per- 
fectly superb!"  "Bravo!"  etc.;  not  because  they 
really  enjoyed  it,  but  merely  because  they  thought  it 
was  the  proper  thing  to  do.  After  that  for  three 
solid  hours  Rough  House  Mike  and  Shifty  Sadie 
seemed  to  be  apologizing  to  the  audience  for  their 
disgraceful  street  brawl,  which  was  honestly  the  only 


z44    AMERICAN    PROSE  HUMOR 

At  the  Opera 

good  thing  in  the  show.  Along  about  twelve  o'clock 
I  thought  I  would  talk  over  old  times  with  Bud,  but 
when  I  turned  his  way  I  found  my  tried  and  trusty 
comrade  "Asleep  at  the  Switch." 

At  the  finish  the  woman  next  to  me  who  seemed 
to  be  on,  said  that  the  main  lady  was  dying.  After 
it  was  too  late,  Mike  seemed  kind  of  sorry.  He 
must  have  given  her  the  knife,  or  the  drops,  because 
there  was  n't  a  minute  that  he  could  look  in  on  her 
according  to  the  rules.  He  laid  her  out  on  the  bum 
rock,  they  set  off  a  lot  of  red  fire  for  some  unknown 
reason,  and  the  curtain  dropped  at  12:25.  Never 
again  for  my  money.  Far  be  it  from  me  knocking, 
but  any  time  I  want  noise  I  '11  take  to  a  boiler  shop, 
or  a  Union  Station  where  I  can  understand  what  's 
coming  off.  I  'm  for  a  good  mother  show.  Do  you 
remember  "The  White  Slave,"  Jim?  Well,  that's 
me.  Was  n't  it  immense  where  the  main  lady  spurned 
the  leering  villain's  gold  and  exclaimed,  with  flashing 
eye,  "  Rags  are  royal  raiment,  when  worn  for  virtue's 
sake!"  Great!  "The  White  Slave"  has  "Die 
Walkvire  "  beaten  to  a  pulp,  and  they  don't  get  to 
you  for  three  cases  gate  money  either. 


In  Love 
By 

Billy  Baxter 

(William  J.  Kountz,  Jr.) 


IN   LOVE 
BY  BILLY  BAXTER 

(William  J.  Kountz,  Jr.) 

PITTSBURG,  PA.,  May  I,  1899. 
r^vEAR  JIM: — So  you  want  to  know  how  a  fellow 
•*— '  is  going  to  tell  positively  when  he  is  stuck  on  a 
girl,  do  you?  Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you 
mighty  quick.  If  some  guy  cuts  in  on  your  steady, 
you  are  going  out  to  her  home,  and  you  are  going  to 
call  her  fine  and  plenty,  are  n't  you  ?  And  unless  she 
promises  to  bump  the  other  fellow,  you  are  going  to 
leave  her  in  a  rage,  are  n't  you  ?  Now,  if  you  go  back 
without  being  sent  for,  you  're  it. 

I  have  often  thought  I  would  land  a  girl  with  coin, 
blow  business,  and  sit  around  for  a  while.  It  would 
be  great  to  have  your  own  hearthstone,  with  a  couple 
of  registered  St.  Bernard's  lying  around,  and  here 
and  there  a  golden-haired  darling  romping  and  play- 
ing with  a  bottle  of  paregoric.  But  somehow  or 

247 


248    AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR 
In  Love 

other  I  always  fall  down.  Now,  take  that  Katherine 
Clark,  who  has  been  visiting  the  Hemingway's  for 
the  past  month.  When  she  first  came,  I  said  to  my- 
self, "  Billy,  my  boy,  here  's  your  chance;  break  in 
and  cop  out  an  heiress."  So  I  sicked  myself  on  to 
her.  Well,  you  know  I  'm  not  a  piker.  I  went 
after  her  right.  Eats,  drinks,  shows,  and  all  the 
expensive  things.  I  touched  Johnny  Black's  brother- 
in-law  for  fifty,  and  gave  an  informal  luncheon  that 
was  a  pippin.  I  wore  my  New  York  Central  shirt 
with  the  four  stripes,  and  we  had  wine  with  cobwebs. 
There  was  n't  a  thing  served  that  any  one  could  pro- 
nounce, and  Johnny  Black  got  loaded,  and  told  us  on 
the  quiet  why  his  sister  had  left  her  husband.  I 
insulted  Johnny  by  making  some  remark  about  his 
joining  the  Tell  Club,  and  altogether  everything  was 
a  big  success.  The  check  came  to  $44.60,  and  I 
flashed  Johnny's  brother-in-law's  fifty.  When  the 
waiter  brought  the  five-forty  change,  I  waved  him 
away  as  though  the  Standard  Oil  Company  was  the 
smallest  thing  I  owned.  The  tip  was  out  that  old 
man  Clark  was  black  with  money,  and  if  it  's  so,  I 
know  why.  He  is  tight-ribbed  and  popcorn.  Down 


AMERICAN    PROSE   HUMOR    249 
By  Billy  Baxter 

in  George's  Place  the  other  day  I  asked  the  old  man 
what  he  was  going  to  drink,  and  he  said  he  would 
rather  have  the  money.  And  say,  he  gave  me  a 
cigar  that  looked  as  though  it  had  some  skin  trouble, 
and  smelled  like  some  one  was  shoeing  a  horse. 
However,  a  fellow  does  n't  always  have  to  live  with 
the  bride's  parents.  Jim,  this  girl  was  a  dream. 
Tailor-made,  cloak-model  form,  city-broke,  kind  and 
sound.  She  could  just  naturally  beat  the  works  out 
of  a  piano  ;  and  talk  about  your  swell  valves.  Why, 
the  other  night  she  sang  "A  Sailor's  Life's  the  Life 
or  Me  "  so  realistically  that  Johnny  Black  got  seasick. 


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